I pinned the latest Bishop poem over my desk, "The Sandpiper," then sat at my computer, where I was working on my story, and read through the poem a few times.
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
And then I turned back to my story.
Though Silverlady knew the news was necessary for gossip-crazy raccoons to hear, she also knew that most raccoons looked at it as a chance to get together and blab. It was often said that more news was exchanged between the gossipmongers than the newsmonger actually provided.
"Damn," I said.