I held the totem in my hand and wondered, first of all, who made the wooden structure. So intricately carved, it made me think of hours of hard work like something you’d see in Italy from the great masters. Yet, this was on the forest floor in an outskirt of Alabama; were there Michelangelo’s here, too?

Then I herd the scurry from behind me, and turned to see a man on all fours. He crawled towards me, dripping drool from his mouth and digging his rotted nails into the wet earth from a recent rain. His mouth was twisted in a smile, showing blackened teeth.

“That’s mine you’ve got there,” he said, oddly eloquent. “What do you think?”

“It’s trash,” I said, throwing it down and running away. I had been wrong about its intricacies; it was a vulgar creation.