Whose Large Eyes Catch the Light

I’m throwing open all of my windows and doors,

singing a song to the cold night air,

a beautiful song, to invite all the animals in.

I want to live with the furred and feathered,

the wild, the sincerely ferocious, the always hidden,

whose large eyes catch the light.

Small, soft animals will look cautiously out

from the pockets of winter coats.

Birds will nest in old shoes, in the morning

they will fly up to perch at the top of the bookcase

to see what I’ve been reading.

When I sit at the kitchen table

eating a bowl of cereal,

slurping the sugary milk

from the bottom of the bowl,

I’ll look up and see a large crow

flying across the room

saying “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Little birds will cling to my hair,

their feet will poke my head

when they ride along to the store.

Foxes will cough from shadows.

I’ll sleep with bears

dreaming of stars

and caverns.

Bobcats will sit on the roof

looking out over the city

thinking their high up thoughts.

When wolves howl a river of sound,

I’ll ride along.

When I tell people stories

about my lucky life full of wildness

everyone will wonder what voice I used

to call to the animals so convincingly.

They’ll think, what’s in her heart

that makes her so fond of savage beasts?

Does her house have a dirt floor, is it

mossy and crowded with rough branches

crisscrossing the rooms and reaching past

tables and lamps and couches and chairs?

Do they hang their wet scarves and mittens

on twigs by the fire?

Do stars peek

through the open roof between boughs?

When I’m sad

love and warmth will surround me.

I’ll be soft as fur inside,

and won’t need words,

or lies.