At the side of the road
by the low water crossing
where flood waters have receded,
a raccoon lies on damp grasses,
her body not curled
but spread at full length,
no death grimace on her placid face,
no signs of trauma, car or dog.
She has drowned.
Her long-fingered, facile hands
rest by her sides; she looks
as if she has lowered her body
in peaceful prostration to her gods.
There is no scent of decay yet,
the only disorder is the way
her fur sticks out in wet tufts
brushed by muddied waters.
A life torn from the whole,
the balance sheet is in disarray
now that hundred year floods
come several times a year.
Someone is missing a friend,
a mate or mother too soon.
Before long, prairie verbena
with down-covered stems
and silverleaf nightshade with stems
furred in star-shaped hairs,
will make a mat
where raccoon now lies,
black and brown hairs tangled
in purple blossom.
—
Mobi Warren is a poet-naturalist who lives in Texas. She is the translator of several works by Thich Nhat Hanh, including Old Path White Clouds. Warren leads poetry walks in which direct experience of the natural world inspires writing and advocacy for all beings that share our planet home. She is the author of a chapbook, Thread and Nectar, and her essay “Cicadas Still Sing,” in included in Orion Magazine‘s anthology, The Book of Bugs.
