Starglow Basin Man from Sayula

It’s all gone quiet now. The ocelote’s steps pool to the twisted trunk of a downed ironwood, breath slowing in kind.

He stops short of the hollowed depression, ragging scores with claws across the compacted loam. Baiting.

Then he pushes down into his withers, greeting the unknown man with a leering stare and grapple of teeth; making to unearth the stowaway.