The Emergence of a Tayra
The next morning he goes out alone, early, when the cool fogs are still hanging over the river. He is singing, and sometimes he sings back to the birds. Insects that watch him go by, kaytids, tented moths and butterflies, lizards, the spiders in the roots of a blasted out tree, he incorporates them into lyrics. He is cresting a little rise, the river tumbling in knob-knee’ed waterfalls, when the dead leaves raise and a frog’s white belly shows. A beetle is digging her pincers into the frog’s throat.
The beetle turns the frog over, has it pinned, and the frog looks up blankly, alive, feeling for a move. He watches until for no clear reason the beetle lets go, and buzzes away and the frog lays on its side breathing. It slowly pulls into a crouch and blinks. He finds the fallen tree not much further up, having toppled from the high side of the slope, the crown ripping out branches and peppering the mud with green leaves. Three good yanks and the chainsaw screams to life. He starts removing sections and stacks a pyramid of wood to the side. Soon the halves snap apart and he cuts the ends back to make the trail passable again. A tayra slinks out ahead and sits on her haunches.
They watch each other, the tayra with her swollen murine eyes, the engine gurgling; he lilts the gas; the tayra squints but doesn’t move. He clicks off the engine.
He puts out his wrist and steps forward. The tayra comes onto her forepaws, and goes behind a tangle of vines.
She sits up, looks at him. And darts into the ferns. He turns as if something were behind him, but the trail is empty. A small rustle in the brush; then all he hears are insects. He sits a minute, pinching mud between his fingers, and begins to draw.