of wear on a small body fur blown sparse, once-stark mask blending gently over unseeing eyes leg drags as he retires to his nook old bones pushing against grey muscles draped in a coat so mottled by a thousand adventures heists, chases, syndicates fading from memory practiced paws reach for one last walnut, cracked and stashed last moon pads worn smooth against the river’s stony shore and icy current feeling every crevice of its familiar gnarled texture the dark of the alcove is the embrace of mother, still young and blind days of mischief, long past in the deep crook of the den raccoon dreams of