It moved rapidly through the weeds, leaving a wake of uprooted plants. Last week I saw it scurrying through Dad’s old tools. In the spring, it briefly appeared as I planted the beans, but today it couldn’t escape. I lifted it out of the pumpkins and examined it in the sun.

It was dirty; its hide well tanned, covered with scrapes. Dark patches and the blue-green tracks of veins showed through the dirt. Turning it over, I paused at the paler underside.

I think I’ve seen it before, I thought. Closing my eyes, I rummaged through my memory; yes, it had appeared before- last winter driving my truck, years earlier making a presentation to a client. Each time as furtive as a ghost. The sightings were occurring more frequently and lasting longer.

My eyes shot open; I knew what it was. One last look, and then I let it drop, content that I would see it again.

There in the bright sun of the garden I had seen Dad’s hand.