Toucan Nest

Ramón’s Eyes

34 Ramón’s Eyes He must be part iguana, one eye fast on gravel curves, one eye scanning the canopy. Even when he points, patiently explains, half the time, we’re blind. Driving the bus, he guides us toward sight. He’s sharp as razor wire no matter where we are— city, cloud forest, coast. 35 ' In the rainforest, Ramón speaks quetzal, whistles tanager, thrush, hummingbird, finch, sooty robin, wren. When he calls, they come closer, curious. He’s silent, though, reverent when the giant tinamu with no warning meanders across our path. 36 ' Cousin to the vireo, Ramón, ruby eyes flaming, builds a cup nest in the canopy. He catches in bare hands a tiny flash of green— speckled ranita, poison dart frog, set out so we can see. Our leader says, See what Ramón just did? Don’t do that. 37 ' Dust so thick, we lose the truck in front, the one behind. An oxcart lunges up onto roadtop, overloaded, red tangles of just-harvested palm nuts, black knobs pressed for oil. Along the coast, Ramón swerves to the verge, sets the brake. In one tree, two, three, six macaws, raucous, twenty now, scarlet, on the wing. 38 ' Ramón directs us to the roadside stand where on the last day he picks up queso, mango, heart-shaped milk candies. Home. If you ever fly north, Ramón, nuestro casa es su casa. Ramón’s eyes fill— Y mi casa es suyos . . . is small, my house, but yours. Ramón, whose daughter chose for her quinceañera six friends from school, a cake her mamá baked, and her family. Ramón glances cloudward for the rains, season when he rests 39 in his own nest after months on the road barely blinking. for Ramón Valdez, with thanks ...