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lost the hand.
    A tall dentist with a distracted air reminisced about the high white towers of India where certain Hindu sects expose their dead to be picked clean by birds. The dentist drank straight espresso from a paper cup as he stood rocking slowly from heel to toe in the shadow of a deep blue awning. He segued predictably to theTibetan method of disposing of the dead. He lingered over the impatience of the waiting vultures, hopping and flexing their wings and necks just out of reach of the priests who crush every bone and chop the corpse into bird-bite morsels on that wind-stripped plateau.
    These reflections inspired John to tidy his side of the table, wipe a spill with his paper napkin, shove the napkin into his paper cup and rise with the cup and Daisy’s leash in opposing hands. He was leaving again before I could ask him for details of the hand’s appearance. Excusing himself, he tipped the empty cup in farewell before depositing it in the sidewalk waste bin.
    The dentist took John’s empty but still-warm chair to hear the Audubon volunteer explaining why the gull, having carried the hand so far, might abandon it. A midair attack, perhaps by a rival gull. Now that she thinks of it, there is a crow clan nesting in the taller firs in the park. She’s seen crows ganging up on the local hawks to drive them away from the rookery.
    Once dropped, the thing was quickly found at dawn there in the park amid the sleepers and joggers and walkers of dogs. The birdwatcher pictured the gull pacing at a distance, anxious to retrieve its titbit but stymied by gawking humans, harassed by diving crows.
    A flurry of muttering from two tables down ended with one voice breaking out with the news that a bird wasn’t absolutely necessary. There were other beasts.
    The speaker had seen a whole family of opossums parade down an alley just the night before. Big Possum leading, then middle-sized followed by three identical kits, all in a row, tails high.
    Several nods agreed that if the hand was misplaced at thefuneral home a possum could have carried it the short distance to the park.
    Someone else proposed raccoons, reminding us of the noisy pair who play their shriek-and-chase games over the roofs and building marquees. Questions of raccoon and possum diets were raised and disputed.
    Inevitably, the topic of rats surfaced. So close to the river and the docks, our rats are impressive and bold. Dark tales of rodent encounters followed, so it was a relief when one of the hill folk spoke up for coyotes.
    The expensive-view houses on the hills behind us had been under siege for years. Too many reports of bloody cat fur smeared in the shrubbery or pooch carcasses gutted on front lawns meant the hill pets were kept locked indoors. On still nights even here on the low ground we hear coyotes yipping to each other up above.
    Their range is much wider than the coons’ and possums’, of course. None of us was sure that a coyote couldn’t or wouldn’t carry a hand all the way down from the cemetery. We all laughed when somebody said coyotes were so smart they’d take a bus. It seemed close to true.
    â€˜You’re forgetting the blood,’ said a woman who had been so silent I hadn’t noticed her. ‘There was a trail of blood leading away on the sidewalk next to the grass. John said so.’
    I don’t know her but others at the table called her Margo. She had a weathered leopard face and a grey helmet of hair. Her voice was low, a courteous purr.
    â€˜The blood was liquid,’ she said. ‘It had to be fresh.’
    She ignored us as she spoke, staring into the cup in front of her.
    â€˜Imagine,’ she said, ‘a homeless guy. A beggar and wine addict. He hurts his hand somehow, an accident, a fight. The bones are fractured and infection sets in. Or it’s just a scratch from rooting in the garbage, from sliding through the brush at night looking for a place to curl up and