Cibola 65

Marcos (3)

Panting from the climb, eyes on the trail, the friar almost runs into his guide, who stands with an arm outstretched behind to stop him short. Then

without turning his head, hooks a fold of Marcos’s habit & tugs him forward like a trout, breathes in his ear: Mirad. Look. Within arrow’s range down the slope, beyond the pines with their filigreed shadows a meadow traversed by a winding creek, sunlight playing on the water

& there on the far bank two animals lying down together in the vast & reverent stillness. The smaller one glows a burnished copper flecked with white– un ciervito, a fawn– cradled by the golden longtailed form that just then

raises her bowed head to intercept their gaze. A glimpse of dripping jaws & tongue, whiskered face stained red, before she rises

& with one liquid motion leaps & vanishes.