I took these photos last night, but came up empty when I tried to write something about them. Then I remembered a poem I'd written several years ago that seemed to fit. Mind if I share? It's a quick read, I promise.
-
The Furry Thieves
The plums are gone. Every
filmy,
dangling
oval
has vanished. I try to picture the raccoons,
knapsacks slung across their broad,
peppery coats.
One of them clings high in the branches
plucking the fruit, tossing, plucking,
the others examining the lawn,
furiously tapping their gloved hands through the dampness,
chattering under a watchful midnight.
In the morning they are sleeping.
I am standing in my pajamas
underneath the tree that is no longer adorned
with handfuls of palm-sized sweets,
and I'll have to wait until next year
to pierce the fruit with my teeth, peel the sour skin back,
and gorge on the translucent jelly insides,
spitting the prickly pits into the overgrown grass.
