Borders

In the dark of night, beyond a border

created by the spot lights that illuminate

my yard, the light divided from the darkness,

separate and distinct, for my own protection

against my fears, eyes are following us.

They catch the beam of my flashlight

and disappear in a faint rustle of dry leaves,

or unseen eyes watch as we circle the yard,

our nightly rounds, the dogs and I,

a quick trip outside before bed, safely tucked.

It could be a fox or a deer, a coyote perhaps,

or a moose, though doubtful, maybe just a raccoon,

a porcupine, a skunk even, or the smaller ones,

squirrels and chipmunks, mice and mole

and mink staring from the woodpile

or peering out from under the shed, a small

entrance to which they scurry if we venture

too close. This is how we live our lives

here in the woods, aware and cautious,

watching, listening, picking up a scent,

and maybe, if we’re lucky, a brief and fleeting

moment where we lock eyes, see each other

passing quickly from light into darkness

through this clearing we call our own,

an acknowledgement of our space and trespass,

our lives shared across this undefined and shifting

border, my yard and theirs, aware and cautious.