We kneel beside a perfect print of a mountain lion on the sandy bar.
How strange that they’d preserve a single piece of the forest they destroyed.
'Let me get this straight,' I’d ask. 'We’re going to go outside, walk around—then come back?'
Perhaps the rest of the herd can tell the calf is headed to its death.
What if I’d been less inhibited? What if I’d cried out, 'Jesus, what the hell is that?'
