I hear the sounds of a spring brightening dawn,
As fledgeling birds from sheltering nests emerge.
A lone Blackbird’s singing lifts this idling morn,
A creature scuttering through the long grassed verge.
I hear a fox barking in the fading night,
An early bee droning through the warming day.
I hear breezes rustling in the morning light,
The slow risen hours of a full budded May,
I hear the symphony of the pouring rain,
The hiss as sudden watery puddles form,
Fast rivulets gushing through the gurgling drain,
Low grumbling sounds of a distant passing storm.
I hear the woodland stream sing its own refrain
And slow draughts whispering through the barn’s stored grain.
Racoons, Racoons, bouncing everywhere!
Ceiling to floor and door to door.
Down the rain pipe, then back up.
Scuttering around seeking food;
a comfortable place to sleep.
When night creeps up my sliding door,
lights out for the night;
I can trust in their pitter-pat to keep me brave.
Children go home, husbands die.
The racoons return, little soldiers, day and night.
Their rambunctious rattling ease the missing footsteps on the stairs;
where ghosts still range from time to time, unreliable at best.
The racoons, seven at last count,
don’t mind the frightening sight of me without my teeth or hair.
They live and play above my head;
just grateful for a warm insulated corner in which to rest.
As others speak of their grandkids, I speak of my racoons.
But my racoons are more loyal;
they never leave; they never cry.
Their character lays in their unaltering, steadfast presence.
It seems such a small thing, yet it’s everything when your old and alone.
Kids grown
No one coming home
A silent telephone
They expect nothing from me
Giving me the greatest comfort there is,
the muffled sound of little feet across the ceiling.