Chirp

     Chirping, she expects me
     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.