The granite pillars at Newton Street bridge 
emerge from dark into the headlights’ view.
Carved with great blue herons in profile,
they mark the entrance to a footpath
along the banks of the Charles River.

I slow my car to pause at a crosswalk,
surprised to notice a large creature
standing in the road – a male coyote
as tall as the fender at shoulder height,
unfazed and unthreatened by my presence. 

Handsome, with silver threads in his fur,
he looks behind him where a smaller female
steps out from the trees. She does not stride, 
but her gait is unapologetic –
she scoots across the street to join him.

They sniff each other, a gesture without 
the vulgar antics domestic canines
often display when greeting. A few whiffs 
at the muzzle and neck scruff confirm 
relation before they slip back into shadow.

Out for a stroll the next day, I see signs
stapled to telephone poles around town:
“Warning: there are coyotes in Waltham!
They have been known to prey on cats and dogs. 
Keep pets indoors, especially after dark.”

Later that week, the radio newscast 
says several dead coyotes were found 
at a local dump, their killer unknown.
I think of the pair I saw the other night 
and hope they still roam these urban woods.