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Raccoon 
Returning from my morning walk along the river, passing 
the culvert a second time, I suddenly see it: grey-faced animal 
wrapped from inside around the grate, its posture the ancient agony 
and submission to death. Stiff front and hind legs thrust out, the 
body folds around the metal bars that caught it mid-belly, snout 
twisted down and outward, baring the white corn of the teeth. 
Our summer has been dry, followed by heavy rains. This 
concrete tunnel under meadows empties down from housing 
construction off South Main. A contained flood inside the storm 
sewer swept the raccoon away, slammed and pinned it here, where it 
died from drowning or concussion or both. 
Pass by in your haste, and ignore it. Or notice the coarse- 
furred limbs extended, reaching for some withheld deliverance. 
Think of the new streets and homes, the people who no longer know 
where they are. Notice how closely the hands resemble your own. 
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