There are two shamans in my life
“There are two shamans in my life,” I told the tailless squirrel in my garden. “The smug hobo and the sincere time traveler.”
An indecisive capybara pup, she hopped in and out of the raised beds, stiffening to sniff between skitters.
“Do they drop food?” she asked.
“The hobo eats and drinks and pontificates but leaves a clean plate.”
“Shame,” she said.
“The other one serves, but I bring fig bars to the park out of habit.” A goddamned baby rabbit darted past with a mouthful of sprouts. I blinked and it was hid.
Continuing, I said, “They talk about spirits and the influence of tricksters. Ancestors waiting to pass and mumble. Rocks that speak and scenes revealed by invisible presences, for some reason, lending us transcendental agency. Herbs, toys, and gestures that, as of yet, I don’t get.”
Hind-sitting bunnies like spring-loaded groundhogs assess risk with breaths by the wood fence. Downed limbs, daffodils, and thick bluebell stands camouflage their quicksilver exposures, object impermanences, and mounts. I hold no rock to throw.
“How did they find you?” she asked over the robotic woodpecker yips, cranky Jay complaints, and death-by-window insects. These creatures read each other’s tweaks and freak out, expecting grenades made of teeth, scales, and accurate talons in this Eden.
“My attractive curiosity,” I explained. “I bring the inside to outsiders and learn their exclusive techniques. I ask questions and they say stuff back. It’s worth it when I later think. But, absent symmetrical itches, I detach and try to find somebody with weed.”
“Jumping from tree to tree is hard without a tail,” she confessed. To be polite, I hadn’t asked. “It’s just as well. No one expects a shifted shape or a goober between the zinnias.”