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In January of last year, four wildlife rescue organizations coordinated to catch a sick half-grown coyote who had been finding refuge under my porch. Coyotes are a protected species in Massachusetts, so before attempting a rescue, they had to get permission from the state. The day that they finally received permission, he disappeared. The temperature dropped to the teens, and we watched the forecast with growing alarm, worried we had missed our chance and he had frozen to death in a hole in the woods somewhere. Finally he reappeared. I saw his feet go by under the porch, and texted the team. Within thirty minutes, six people arrived and made a whispered plan to surround the porch from all sides. Armed with old comforters and sheets of siding we ran in from three directions and blocked off his exits, while other volunteers grappled for him with a catch pole through a basement window. After several tense minutes, with only the sounds of his panicked breathing, the indoor team hauled him through the window and into my cellar, head first. Everyone agreed that if we hadn't gotten him that day, he wouldn't have made it. He was suffering from secondary rodenticide poisoning. At some point in his short life, he had already eaten enough poisoned field mice or rats to be dying of poisoning himself. He was hypothermic, dehydrated, his blood wouldn't clot, and with his immune system nearly non-existent he was almost hairless from an overgrowth in the mites, bacteria, and fungi that are normally a natural and balanced part of the skin biome. He was probably under my porch because there was a little warmth coming through the foundation, ignoring his instinct to avoid humans because he was so desperately cold. After three months of specialist care, he was healthy enough to be released to the wild again. Because coyotes are social animals, and frequently use common trails, it's very probable that members of his family passed by my house in the days after his capture and read the story in the scents on scuffed leaves and churned snow. Thanks to Newhouse Wildlife, Friends of Horn Pond, Cape Ann Wildlife, and Berkshire Wildlife for all their work to advocate for him, to catch him, and to heal him for a return to the woods of New England. Rage forest daughter; Stand and sing. He is everywhere, a scent on snow. He is the unforgiven air. He is the curled leaves. He is everything. He will come back changed. He will come back again. The lost child returns in spring, Traveling over dark water; Stand and mourn forest daughter.