It's not entirely evening interstitially lit it wobbles to and fore that forest which bends what's in it to shavings of light to opossum, the dark is to dark and his clawings falling thatch of fur on his back and the sack of straw of him, interested in your bright head now, now opossum hissing rat slapshod six feet treeward in it is the winter tree that bark would be dumb to grow on, those claws he bears it and its animals and you you look at reeds strapped to standing water you’re sketching besides, this opossum topping off your bay, the sweet trees and wisps of reeds staying splayed on the bank forever calling afar like lightness, him, buddy, it's all right, seeing things hinged to the britches of spring like lonely opossums boring winter, its pink moon by swanny on this stretch of wood you are always along.