An arctic sky, the grasses heavy with snow.

Did you see the raccoon, creeping towards the coop,

Making small human footprints in the drift,

Pursuing the warmth and the scent?

I saw him. I saw him sprint, suddenly,

Scampering on ice, striped tail

Washing over the white, wet nose vibrating

As he ran into the hutch.

He was reaching for an egg, a single pale egg,

Tongue licking in anticipation,

Ready to lap up the white marrow,

To partake in its yolk.

He outstretched one matted arm,

Reaching with the human hand,

Grasping for the pale egg,

Seeking its warmth.

Now his body lies here, his blood beating into the snow.

The death would not come fast,

And how sad it seemed to watch him,

Watch the raccoon, watch the blood

As it unfurled like scarlet angel wings into the snow.

The egg's death is only prolonged. The snow melts.

The earth drinks his blood, and I think that the trap might rust sometime.

But I still remember how his red human hands had frozen in the cold,

Before the grasses grew a little less heavy.