The day before yesterday I saw a red salamander on a rock behind my office building. I was walking the dog, Cruiser, in a shady spot that is verdant with vinca vine and other pleasant ground covers, and glanced at the boulders that mark the corner of our building. There was an orangey-red smear, which I thought might be bubble gum dropped from the balcony above, or a broken balloon, or a toy. I peered closer, and saw the salamander shape, so my mind zoomed in on toy. I like toys. I peered closer, and saw layers of fine detail that continued to emerge as I got closer. Delicate spots, points of yellow outlined in green. Tiny transparent toes, wrinkles of an armpit where the arm was set forward and the toes on the rearward-facing arm curled under. Such detail--it couldn't be a toy. It was completely motionless, its tail curved gently, a beautifully rendered salamander in a caricature of a salamander pose. I gently touched its nearly transparent tail and the salamander jerked. Alive, definitely. As quickly the creature froze again, hoping to fool me. But I have opposable thumbs and cannot be so easily fooled. Ever so lightly I stroked its little tail, no thicker than a piece of cooked spaghetti. It edged away from me, but didn't flee. I didn't want to disturb it more so I moved back away from it and went on with the dog.

This made me want to spend time writing like Annie Dillard in "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek."