I’ve uncovered this strangeness: I thought I had stopped
looking for animals when I wandered. Then I retrace
myself in Wyoming, overnight at a rest stop, where I had
encircled the bricks in search of the largest foreign moths
until I could collapse peacefully; in South Dakota, scaling
the Badlands, staring at a green racer arched indignantly
before we both dispersed; mocking tree peepers back in
New Hampshire with a flashlight speckled in the misted
grawlixes of spring rain; kneeling to profile a gold-eyed
toad perched on a Pennselvanian log. Each little lesson is
a choice now. I’ve chosen waste, gained the art of wasting.
Why did I think I’d ever stopped? Well. Why would a young
lizard return to the sunning rock where a child had clawed
at its beauty, same as any raptor. Why would the robins
build a nest in the blueberries where they’re eyed by foxlike,
gushing apes in their grunting marvel. What animal are
you? Look. It is beautiful. Turn over the garden slate, find
veil-skinned grubs, constellated salamanders, slick beetles,
curled efts. Look at how a boy holds them. He is as still as
a prey creature—& if a prey creature knew it was born to
be eaten, if you knew that there were specialized jaws made
for breaking your neck & yours alone—why would you run?
But the creatures do run. They scrabble & squeal & exude
aposematic toxicity. I wander. What a well-hidden predator
inevitability is. In the rain, where the rains have left us, mist
covers the world at a child’s height. This instinct eschews
remembrance. Always, like life & water; always, like prey &
ignominy. May you turn over your mossy heart to find your
feral mirror. May you hear the chirps & croaks & buzzing
of the great dusk chorus thoughtlessly begging for tomorrow,
my voice not among them.