They must have heard us call them
masked bandits
and liked the sound of it.
I try to tell the raccoons
who lurk near our cabin
that the black fur around their eyes
is to reduce glare
but they just look at me
with a snarl.
They know they’re not bears,
the kingpin gangsters
of the forest.
Or cougars,
those hitmen who skulk around alone.
So they have settled into this persona
of small-town thugs,
gangs of intimidating prowlers,
a life of petty crime.
But we did this to them.
We paved over their trees
and then we cast them in a role
they’ve been rehearsing
ever since.