Out of the night she comes
out of the owl-flecked night she comes
her robes of darkest sable, banded ermine.
Out of the heavy-lidded night she comes
she knows no fear. so placidly she creeps
between you tired campers here who sleep
the faintest scent now playing in your dreaming
a scent of what, you cannot quite determine.
If you should wake to see the brilliant white
of undulating fur against the night
you would do well to hold off on the screaming.
She means no harm, unless you are a snail.
Her coat is thick, immaculately clean,
and though it seems to cry out for a hand
reach out and she will face you with her tail,
A little stamp of feet as though to preen,
and then the spray: the balm of anal gland.
Breathe deep, instead. Let not familiar fright
deprive you of the pleasure in the sight
of wild things calm and inoffensive-seeming.
Her gaze is black and still, her aspect mild
her resinated thoughts opaque, her features
guileless, the essence of inchoate wild
distilled in one complacent, fearless creature.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Recommended
Poetry
The Neighborhood
Wildlife
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