A quiet moment rises as raccoon pups
roll out of the sewer grate and boil
across the street like water
skimming a skillet.
Their heads hinge at the silhouettes
against the sky, like steam shovels,
neck first. Then whirlpooling
feet cross feet in smooth cycles.
Each alone, as galaxies
churn, they spin hypnotists’
wheels across the asphalt
and leave the flares of their eyes
to hang in the air like sun dogs.
They will sink into the ground
like rain when it breaks the heat