In the wending instance
when the red fox sees the opossum
under the azaleas that need cutting back
in the backyard,

all the broken bottle glass
that the rain has turned up
sharpens fading sunlight,
 
when it has rained all afternoon long
and the clouds of another storm
are marshalling for an evening rain

and the light has almost failed us
enough to give the fox’s eyes in the headlights
coming home
the aspect of two suns
gazed, unaided, by human eyes.
It must be that the opossum’s eyes look the same
in that certain light, coming home.
But he will never turn to face me.