Another poem by Jane Hirshfield.
This August night, raccoons,
come to the back door
burnished all summer by salty,
human touch: enter secretly & eat.
Listen, little mask-faced ones,
unstealthy bandits whose tails
are barred with dusk:
listen, gliding green-eyed ones:
I concede you gladly
all this much-handled stuff,
garbage, grain,
the cropped food and cropped heart.
may you gnaw in contentment
through the sleep-hours
on everything left out.
May you find the house
hospitable,
well-used,
stocked with sufficient goods.
I'll settle with your leavings,
as you have settled for mine,
before startling back into darkness
that marks each of us so differently.