"Because raccoons visit, I put a child's pinwheel in my garden"
I like to think of raccoons, their astonishment
at this flashing Mecca, a half circle
of furry kin mesmerized on my dark lawn.
I think of the pinwheel's flash
reversed on the back of their eyes; the way
they must lean closer, not food or prey,
still they linger. I like to think of them
going home and vocalizing; the way
they want another opinion. Maybe
they'll mark it like a road side Stonehenge. Maybe
they'll bring their kits, let them see for themselves--
everything is not all black or white,
none of us have everything worked out.