Raccoon Poem

A raccoon curled up in my tool shed to die

And looks at me with a glacial eye,

Heavy, slab of frozen fur

I sling it to the woods beyond a spur,

Of granite at the edge of my yard.

Next I decide to clean up a pile of sawdust

With which I might enhance the compost,

In the middle of the pile as I shovel

I discover a dead squirrel, stiff in his last hovel,

I carry the lighter icy fur back to the granite

And toss it to the sky above the planet,

Into the woods to feed the trees

That make the leaves,

And nuts from water earth and light

In vales far beyond my sight.

And now on granite I incise this card.