A Language Older Than Words Read Online Free PDF Page A

began, so far as I could tell, on a cold day in 1994. Several times over the previous months, coyotes had come out of the small patch of rocky forest to the east of my home and caught chickens, then taken them away to eat. Once in a while I saw a coyote dash out, or heard a squawk, then turned to see a quick glimpse of gray that simply disappeared when my two dogs tried to run it down. A few times the dogs did catch up to the coyote, and I saw a flurry of fur and dust, followed by the dogs running home to sit quietly, chastened, for a day or two in the barn. Twice I saw one coyote make an abor tive rush at the chickens, and when the dogs gave chase, another coyote trotted from the other direction to pick up a bird before I, the dogs, or the poultry—all distracted—could react. But most often I merely saw one less duck or chicken or goose return to the coop from a day spent foraging in the tall grass or among the maze of trails beneath the thicket of wild roses to the west of my house. Then I would walk in the forest to the east and discover— somewhere—a roundish scatter of feathers—white, black, or barred, sometimes red or even iridescent green—where the coyote had stopped to eat the bird.
    The day the conversation began I was kneeling in front of the wood stove, trying to start a fire, when suddenly I felt if I looked outside I would see a coyote. Perhaps the feeling came simply because on each of the previous four days a chicken had disap peared—never before had the coyotes been so present. I went to the window and looked out; a coyote was stalking a bird. By the time I made it to the front door it had disappeared.
    The next two days I happened to be outside when one or another coyote came by. No intuitions these times; just luck. The coyotes had come now for seven straight days. On the eighth day I happened to be on the couch looking out the window— lucky again—when I saw a coyote approach. Frustrated, know ing I couldn't be there each day to protect the birds, and unsure what else to do, I opened the window and called out, "Please don't eat the chickens. If you don't, I will give you the head, feet, and guts whenever I kill one. And please, don't forget my work in defense of the wild." The coyote turned and trotted away, now and again slowing to look back over its slender shoulder.
    Except at night, to sing, the coyotes didn't come back for many months, and when at last they did, it was, it seemed, only to remind me to keep my end of the bargain. I hadn't yet killed any birds, and I looked out one day to see a coyote sitting on a knoll about a hundred yards to the north. He sat and stared in my direction, not moving when I opened the window and leaned out. Finally I said—fairly softly, actually—"Okay, I'll bring you some food." As soon as I said this thecoyote stood and began to pad away. Another coyote appeared, and they touched noses. The first one continued, and the second now sat and stared. I repeated my promise, and this coyote, too, went off in the direction of the other.
    It is not too much to say that a primary purpose of Descartes' philosophy, and indeed much of modern science, is to provide a rational framework on which to base a system of exploita tion. Descartes himself stated this plainly, as when he observed, "I perceived it to be possible to arrive at knowledge highly use ful in life ... and thus render ourselves the lords and possessors of nature."
    Had Descartes been a lone lunatic wishing to become a "lord and possessor of nature," none of us would ever have heard of him. But he had an entire culture for company. His fame and influence make plain that he articulated what continues to be a powerful cultural desire.
    Another of the progenitors of the scientific method was Francis Bacon, who formalized the process of inquiry by which a scien tist develops a hypothesis, then gathers data in order to support or invalidate it. Bacons intent was clear: "My only earthly wish is ... to