Late Autumn Raccoon

nature, tree, raccoon

The embers of sunset still glow
as the lone raccoon skulks
from his den. All night he scavenges
dry kernels from shriveled cobs
scattered across a stubbled field.

Full and drowsy by sunrise,
he lumbers back to the hollow sycamore
he’s stuffed with dried leaves
and curls into himself for a long torpor.
For weeks, he dreams

of the coyote who carried his mate away.


By Kip Knott

Kip Knott’s poetry and photography have recently appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, Barren, La Piccioletta Barca, perhappened mag, and Tiny Seed Literary Journal. His debut full-length collection of poetry–Tragedy, Ecstasy, Doom, and so on–is available from Kelsay Books. More of his work may be accessed at