A pair of tiny black eyes rose from the compost. The raccoon stared. He stared back. The raccoon made a small gesture with its paw, as if about to count off a tune in 7, but wanted to know first if he could keep up. “Listen,” he told this furry cutie, “This isn’t pro bono unless at least two other mammals pay the cover.”

The raccoon craned its neck, then chirped. A descending minor third. An interval that says, “your move, human.”

Sighing, he tapped a metallic rhythm on the side of the garbage bin, sounding half samba, half broken dishwasher. Raccoon nodded. They improvised, spontaneous duet. Maybe forty-eight seconds. Maybe fifty. The entire universe tilted. He was playing with the most attentive collaborator he’d met all year.