The afternoon had longed at the inlet,
oysters raw and grilled, green and white,
pulled from the same water lapping
at our feet, the feel between our toes
the same as on our tongues.
The raccoons had made a mess of things
in the night, as they often do,
outwitting the trashcans built to foil them.
They built crosses with torn up cardboard
and left them like a runway into an overgrowth
opposite the soft, wet sun. A party clanged
behind us, but we were on to something.
In the dark, we bled without feeling it,
gripped by the animals and their chatter.
We flew like two herons from the cattails,
held in their song, floating, sleeping.
Photo by Dean Pasch
