Doubled mirrors by Kenneth Rexroth

It is the dark of the moon.Late at night, the end of summer,The autumn constellationsGlow in the arid heaven.The air smells of cattle, hay, And dust. In the old orchard The pears are ripe. The treesHave sprouted from old rootstocksAnd the fruit is inedible. As I pass them I hear somethingRustling and grunting and turnMy light into the branches.Two raccoons with acrid pearJuice and saliva droolingFrom their mouths stare back at me,Their eyes deep sponges of light.They know me and do not run Aw...