I locked eyes with a coyote the other day.
Not in a zoo. Not in a nature documentary. Not from the safety of a hiking trail at a comfortable distance.
Right there on the road, on an ordinary drive to work.
There’s a stretch of forest I pass through most mornings. The kind of place where you half expect to see something move in the trees, but usually don’t. This time, I did. Two coyotes were ahead of me, just off the shoulder. One crossed the road quickly, all business. The other stayed behind.
I slowed right down. The last thing I wanted was for this wild animal to bolt at the wrong moment.
He didn’t move.
He waited.
And as I rolled past, we met eyes.
For a brief moment, it felt like time stalled. He wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t aggressive. Just still. Alert. Watching.
Wild, yet curious.
And I found myself wondering what he was thinking.
It struck me how rarely we really see the wild around us. Not just glimpse it from a distance, but feel its presence. This wasn’t a fleeting blur disappearing into the trees. This was a living creature making a decision. Stay or go. Risk or retreat.
In that split second, we shared space.
He had nowhere else to be but exactly where he was. I was on my way to another day of schedules, deadlines and responsibilities. Our worlds overlapped for maybe two seconds, and yet it felt longer.
There’s something unsettling about that kind of encounter. We like to think we’re in control out there. That the road is ours. The landscape is a backdrop to our routines.
But moments like this remind us that we’re not alone in it.
This was his morning, too.
He wasn’t afraid in the way a domestic animal might be. There was a calculation in his stillness. A quiet assessment. Who are you? Are you a threat? Do I move now or wait?
And if I’m honest, I was asking the same questions.
Who are you? What is your life like out here? What does this place look like through your eyes?
It’s easy to forget that the wild isn’t somewhere else. It’s not only deep in national parks or on the far side of mountain ranges. It lives right alongside us, just beyond the edge of our daily routines.
Sometimes it even looks back. A part of him was almost daring me to stop. How I wish I could’ve captured him on photo.
Eventually, he turned and slipped into the trees, silent and unhurried.
I drove on.
But the moment stayed with me. That brief, wordless connection between two very different lives sharing the same stretch of road.
For a second, the line between our worlds felt thinner than usual.
