Raccoon
Two footprints on the dew damp chair
show that he has been here.
We know he visits at night.
The cat wakes up, jumps off the bed,
leaps to the window, and hisses.
Then she falls silent.
The raccoon steals food from the feeder
and shuffles the pottery shards
we leave out to gather water for the birds.
We never see him.
Sometimes we hear him grunt;
occasionally the wind chimes rattle furiously
as if caught by a giant gust..
We peer into the dark,
turn on the outside lights,
but his absence greets us
like a long lost friend.
Last night, nothing:
this morning, an empty feeder,
those footmark in the dew on the chair:
we know he was there.
rogermoorepoet 