the raccoon crossing the bridge last
its hunch back hobble
it peered at me from
under the guard rail
as I said
it’s alright
it’s alright


two raccoons crossing the bridge
last night
guiding each other
to the island
“are the crosses growing?”
the white hand made cemetery crosses
growing taller in the night breeze
a field of multi-colored, rusting
tractors somebody’s only crop
a boy riding one of the best
burying himself in the deepest bloom