A night sometime in mid-July
and darkness hums between the trees.
My eyes look across sodden grass
for another life to waddle past.

A creature,
a ball of bristles
appears from the bushes,
listen out for a snuffle, a mumble.

There, by the fence,
a wooden coat speckled with milk.
Its movement lazy like a man
on a summer Sunday walk home.

Does it come often? I wonder
as a breeze races over my lawn.
A sniff of a fallen branch
before shuffling along.

The evening crawls on,
a caterpillar over a leaf.
I decide to wait a while,
watch my guest awake, alive.