I hear you rustling in the woods.
Who are you?
It’s so hot.
So full moon hot.
Sweat drips, soaks sheets, midsummer’s sauna.
Run cool bath water and recline.
Ahhh, feel better, don’t you?
Who’s rustling beneath the full moon?
I see the moon and the moon sees me,
but who are you, fat waddler,
crackling leaves beneath your paws?
Mountain lion, bobcat, raccoon?
In dappled shadow
are you friend or bear,
foe or fawn, or both,
disguised as moon shadow?
Why am I suddenly nervous,
scaredy-cat cooled by moon breeze
Will you jump on deck in single leap
and lick my hot face?
What fantasy, striped rustler,
a waddling black and white skunk,
snuffling, minding your own 1:13 a.m. business
a scaredy-skunk of the shadow on deck,
some hulk of person illuminated by fireflies.
You scurry into brush;
I scurry into house,
delighted, oh delighted,
in skunk’s sacred midnight visit.
You know, don’t you, skunk medicine
It transforms what we imagine
negative, unapproachable, stinky, sweaty.
We remember our freedom,
full moon birthright.
We see clearly in the dark.