the raccoon

Connie Song
Nov 4 · 1 min read

living in my back yard

Photo Credit Quinten de Graaf on Unsplash

Trash day on a brisk autumn morning in early November
on the first Monday since changing the clocks back
the sun shining, the air still and eerily quiet,

No powerful gusts that just last week downed
limbs and branches
and tumbled the trunk
of a centenarian hemlock in a neighbor’s yard.

No evidence of the power company
and cable workers
on elevated cherry-pickers
trying to restore normalcy.

I do notice, strewn in my alley way,

Evidence
of nibbled bagels and chicken bones
a trail to be followed to my back yard
until I am distracted by a friendly voice.

I recognize the svelte physical therapist who opens shop early
at six forty-five
garnishing his usual coveted parking spot
not far from my curb.

He stares at the huge holes in the big black garbage bags
gross slits overflowing with specks of red sauce and egg shells
and blames the hungry cats

Can it be
that he has yet to meet
the raccoon living in my back yard?