Waiting for Supper
The raccoon’s nails click
on the wooden stairs
as she climbs the darkness
to the deck.
She waddles across
to the round white table
and crumb-mines
for bits of dropped burger
and chunks of strawberry
from tonight’s alfresco meal.
I watch her front paws dig
at the cracks in the deck,
search for fallen food.
I watch her lick
under the barbecue,
hungry for grease drippings.
She looks at the house.
Does she see me?
Or does she see
her own reflection
in the patio door?
Does she see
her mask and dense fur
and city-fed bulk?
She feels no danger,
no threat as
I unlock the door
and slide it open.
Still, she searches
for stolen feast.
Not until I open
the screen does
she hiss and clatter off,
clicking down
the wooden stairs
and across
the flagstones below.
I sense she is there,
there hidden
in the night woods
at the edge of the ravine.
I can’t see her
but her wild eyes
can see me.
Intelligent and patient,
she will wait
until my light goes out
and I climb to my bed.
She will click-clack
up the wooden stairs,
return
to explore and feast.
I feel her
watching,
waiting and watching
in the night woods.
The photo of the table is mine.

