When winter starts slowly releasing its grip- the end of February or beginning of March in Minnesota- the coyotes get restless. It’s their mating season and they have space and future families to defend.

Every coyote season, neighbors start to send emails: “Saw a coyote running through the park early this morning.” And, “Had two coyotes in my backyard last night.” Sometimes, on a lucky day, a photo is attached: coyotes climbing someone’s front stairs or three coyotes in a line near the baseball diamond.

Those first emails inspire many more: “Better leash your dogs! And don’t let them out into your yard alone at night.” Or, “How high can coyotes jump? I have a five foot fence and some hens in a chicken coop in my backyard.” And, “Might not want to put out fresh compost these next few weeks.”

*****

I got close to an urban coyote once. Less than two years ago, on a September night when it was already dark out, I was walking our 4 month old puppy, Ruth. She was afraid of everything then, but especially of walking outside at night. It had taken two months of treats, coaxing, and occasionally carrying her to build up enough confidence for her to cross the street at night. The night we saw the coyote, we were only one block away from home.

The coyote was under my neighbor’s pear tree, sniffing the grass and eating whatever pears it found. We were about 30 yards away when we noticed it and both Ruth and I froze. I picked her up and we stood there, in the shadows across the street, watching for a good five minutes hoping it wouldn’t come any closer.

The pear tree is on a corner, so there were street lights shining down on this oddly wild-urban scene making it magical. The coyote was huge and beautiful. It was dark brown and soft looking- almost familiar. But its pointy face and freedom from a collar demanded unfamiliarity. It would occasionally pick its head up, look around, and then keep searching for pears- a ridiculously dainty snack for something so untamed.

Holding my shivering puppy in the shadows, I tried to push the memory of alarming coyote-related emails out of my mind. Surely this coyote knew we were there, just across the street. It surely knew that four other neighbors were silently watching from their porch behind me. The coyote could probably even smell the hens in my backyard five houses down.

But when fear started replacing the wonder in my bones, the coyote stepped out from under the pear tree and took off down the dark street. Completely silently. And we were left with nothing, wondering if it had ever been real. Which is amazing, isn’t it? That something so wild can seem like such a secret?

*****

When winter started slowly releasing its grip this March, I heard the neighborhood dogs all start barking one dark night. They kept at it for a long time, and my Ruth- now almost 2 years old- joined in at the windows from the safety of our living room. I hoped it was a coyote out there inspiring the ruckus, reminding us that we exist on a razor’s edge of wild and tame, feral and free.

The next morning I saw coyote prints in many of the front yards of my block. They led to the pear tree on the corner. And I felt alive knowing a bit of wildness had been near.