In the woods

Bare oak branches stretch out to the sky like veins,
They trickle out as I imagine blood would.
It is 6:42 in the evening and innocence still lingers.
Something moved far off in the distance.

A squirrel I fathom,
And in practice of curiousness I see,
It is the old bandit,
A raccoon stares back at me.

So accustomed to seeing him scavenge man’s garbage,
Though today there is a look about him that interests me.
He saunters with dignity here in the woods,
I cannot rush him away.

I am the unwelcome visitor,
And he has the right to discerning eyes.
Though today I will gladly step aside,
I hungered for a piece of his skies.