jungle at night: warm, noisy, rank with mango, and but for some holes
drilled through the sky by stars, wholly dark. A river floats through you
on its back, shivering with silver piranhas. Banyan roots claw its face
with thirsty fingers and draw black water up to the leafy canopy, where
the last honeysuckle vireo on earth has sunk her beak into the single
living pygmy anaconda, which in turn has the bird half wrapped in its
flexing grip. Only one will live. It's too soon to say.
---Joel Brouwer
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