Skunkwatching

Last night we watched
six skunks gambol
across the lawn below the balcony.
We stared, entranced, until the last vestiges
of twilight dropped away
and the sky was dark.
Yet, still we watched,
our only reference point
being the faint shape of
the white marks on their heads
as they explored the edges of grasses,
checked each patio,
and ventured into the road
and along the curb sides.
They tussled and squeaked
over a piece of bread
and we watched on,
captivated by the slight glow
from their heads,
like large ground-based fireflies
moving through the darkness.
“I don’t know how I’m going to write a poem about this,”
I say,
and then I remember
that there are some bits of life’s magic
that I do not need to try to explain
or describe,
even though I will probably
make an effort anyway,
how they exist is how they exist,
their magic is their own,
being here to notice is its own kind of power,
its own kind of gift.
“I’ve never had so much fun,”
one of my kids says
as we concentrate
on slight ripples of movement
barely visible on the grass below us.
Today, I sit among raindrops
looking at the clouds,
drifts of mist rising up
from the trees to join them
on their slow dance across the sky.
These are the stories we hold,
the way sunshine-lit clouds
sit in a still white puff,
while smoky drifts pass them by.
The things we try to explain,
but may not be able to convey in words,
the thrills of skunkwatching
on a dark night in September,
my children’s hands slipped into my own
as we peer together into the darkness,
our eyes straining
to catch the barest of white shadows
in the night.