to follow her up a tree
or under a raspberry bush.
When she tires,
I pick her up,
kiss her forehead.
A bottle of goat’s milk
warms on the stove.
Her chirps grow louder as she
kicks free of the towel
I’m using to protect
my clothes as I hold her.
I coo, ‘Soon. Soon now,’
as if she could
understand.
Rewrapped
cradled in my arm,
she sucks the nipple
once,
twice,
thrice,
then pushes the bottle away
with five-fingered paws.
She yawns,
gulps,
tries again.
Her belly swollen,
I set the bottle aside.
Under the tap, I wash
tiny hands and sticky snout.
She nestles in my arm
and purrs
while I dream of the bridge
I will build
so a small raccoon may cross
from my world
back into hers.
