Been thinking about possums a lot lately and this is not even a good poem but I like passing them when it's late and dark and they glare at me.
I'm stumbling along and I can hear them
bubbles spilling from your throat
angry chitter,
branch shakes sudden and a silhouette springs
claw-hands held defensive,
I can almost see the resentful crinkle of your nose
frustrated at being disturbed.
I smile and keep walking.
You're small, but ferocious in your conviction:
It's not my place to intrude.
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