Dogs bark, mosquitoes bite.

Doors can slam, and tents can be zipped up angrily. Maybe a fist fight will ensue, maybe not. Perhaps a robber will hold you up. Or maybe you’ll get hit by a car.

But, despite those things…

I found a sock in a parking lot.

Raccoon eyes for Mulberry Street.

Last night, in the midst of not sleeping, I stepped out onto my front porch with two fingers of whisky.

Typically when I retreat to that area of my house I’m found idly swinging, using the big toe of my left foot to maintain the motion. But last night, I sat on the steps that lead up the hill.

The last time I sat on that particular spot was when I received the best dead mom joke to date, appropriately timed on the anniversary of her death, some years ago.

Last night, as I sipped my whisky, and listened to hard shells crooning, I caught something out of the corner of my eye, from the top of my hill.

A raccoon making his way down the street.

I was quiet, because I wanted him to settle near.

He gets to the part where steps meet street and stops, looking up at me.

I raised my glass to him, “Evening, good sir.”

He makes a murring noise and stays put.

“Lovely night for a stroll, ey? My garbage bin is in the back yard. Help yourself, handsome fella. There isn’t a lid on the green one.”

He looked at me crossly, as if I had offended.

“Jesus. Remind me to never be hospitable to a raccoon again. Care for a cigarette? I’d imagine those that wear masks without retire are smokers found in the shadows.”

He put a paw up and I wondered if he was gay.

“I’m a fan of masks. I find myself wanting to collect them. I’d wear them constantly. I do always keep a bandit mask in my purse, because you never know.”

Silence.

“I swear I’m not trying to impersonate. But really, could you blame me? How do you feel about Mario in Super Mario 3 when he morphs into a raccoon?”

He started to back away. Obviously tired of my conversation.

“Arrivederci.”

I watched his bushy tail as he moved on down the street.

The little bastard never looked back.

Mouth of moths.

The crickets are so loud tonight you’d swear they were screaming.
Surely a few dozen of them have already lost legs.

The narcissist in me wonders if they were silent last night because I was doing all the screaming.
Shrieking and sobbing.
Cruel and vengeful.

These last few weeks I’ve done a terrible job at being human.
Or even, pretending to be human.
Zero zero one, non-compute.

But tonight, my head is quiet
so the rest of the world can be loud.

And god damn,
Do I hear it.
Do I ever.

Hello again.