When the Wild Still Speaks

08/26/2026

What I Thought the Sun Had Left for Me

My name is Zuri.

I am still young enough
to believe the world leaves things
for me to find.

A beetle under bark.

A feather turning circles
in the dry-season wind.

A seedpod that rattles
when I bite it.

A lizard tail
vanishing beneath a stone.

Once,
a piece of old hide
that smelled so wonderfully terrible
I carried it half the morning
until everyone refused
to walk beside me.

The world is enormous.

And almost everything in it
deserves investigating.

That is what I think
when I see the wire.

It lies beside the path
where hooves have pressed
the earth flat.

Thin.

Curled.

Almost shining.

The sun catches one small place
along its body,
and suddenly
there is silver
in all this brown grass.

I stop.

My ears rise.

The pack keeps moving.

Dust drifts around their legs.

But I have discovered something.

Something no one else has noticed.

Something wonderful.

I lower my nose.

It smells faintly
of earth,

of hands,

of rust,

of animals
who passed this way before us.

I do not know
that last smell
should frighten me.

I only know
the thing bends.

I touch it with one paw.

It trembles.

I jump backward.

Then forward again.

This is excellent.

I pounce.

The wire moves.

I wag so hard
my whole back end
forgets how to be dignified.

Perhaps it is a root.

Perhaps it is a snake
that has forgotten
how to hiss.

Perhaps I can carry it
to my brothers.

Perhaps we can pull it
between us.

Perhaps—

Something crashes
into my side.

I yelp.

The sky turns.

Dust fills my mouth.

And suddenly Naru is there.

Naru,
who is older than my mother
and has a torn place
along one ear.

Naru,
who lets us chew his tail
when he is sleepy.

Naru,
who brings meat back
in his belly for us.

Naru,
who almost never
gets angry.

He is angry now.

His teeth flash
beside my face.

He shoves me away
from the shining thing.

I try to go back.

He blocks me.

I duck beneath him.

He catches the loose skin
at my neck
and drags me so hard
my feet stumble
through the dust.

I squeal.

I am furious.

I twist.

I snap at the air.

I tell him,
in every way a pup can tell an adult,

I found it.

It was mine.

I was playing.

I wasn't doing anything wrong.

Naru does not care.

He pushes me
toward the others.

When I turn again,
he stands between me
and the wire.

His tail is stiff.

His ears are forward.

And something has happened
to his face.

Something I do not understand.

Because I see
a fascinating thing
lying in the grass.

Naru sees
a throat closing.

I see
something that wiggles
when touched.

Naru sees legs
kicking dust
until they cannot kick anymore.

I see
a thing I might carry
proudly through the pack.

Naru remembers
a young male
who once ran beside him,

fast enough
to make impala scatter,

gentle enough
to let pups climb
across his sleeping back.

He remembers finding him
where a wire
had found him first.

I do not know this.

I do not know
that a loop can tighten.

I do not know
that struggling
can make it tighter.

I do not know
that wire made by human hands
can wait silently
beside an animal path

without hunger,

without breath,

without eyes,

and still kill.

I do not know
that sometimes
the creature caught
was never the creature
the snare was meant for.

I do not know
that death
does not care
about mistakes.

So when Naru comes back,
I sulk.

I turn my face away.

He touches his nose
to my shoulder.

I move farther.

He follows.

I make a small,
injured sound
because I want him to understand
that he has ruined
the greatest discovery
of my entire morning.

Naru lies beside me.

For a while,
he says nothing
in the language of bodies.

Then his tongue
passes once
between my ears.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He rests his muzzle
across my back.

His heart beats
against me.

Harder
than it should.

I do not understand that,
either.

Soon my brothers begin wrestling
in the grass.

One tumbles over another.

Someone bites someone's tail.

Someone sneezes.

I forget to be angry.

I leap up
and run after them.

Naru watches.

I race beneath the sun.

I race because my legs are young
and the earth is wide
and my family is near

and I do not know
how close the morning came
to becoming something else.

Behind us,

the wire still waits.

Quiet.

Patient.

Almost invisible.

I will remember it
as the interesting thing
Naru would not let me have.

Naru will remember it
as the thing
that did not take me.

And somewhere between
his terror

and my innocence

is the whole terrible distance
between being a pup

and surviving long enough

to know
what the world has hidden
in the grass.

Written By:
K.A. Gagnon
August 26, 2026

In the Wild Today

Conservation status:

Endangered.

Location:

African wild dogs, also called painted dogs, survive in fragmented populations across sub-Saharan Africa, with important populations remaining in parts of southern and eastern Africa.

Key Information Readers Should Know:

African wild dogs are among Africa’s most threatened carnivores.

Habitat loss and fragmentation, conflict with people, road collisions, disease transmitted by domestic dogs, and illegal killing all threaten their survival.

Wire snares set to capture other wildlife for bushmeat are especially dangerous. African wild dogs travel enormous distances while hunting and can encounter snares they were never intended to find. A wire loop can tighten around the neck or leg, causing terrible injuries, loss of limbs, or death.

Because these dogs live in closely bonded, cooperative packs, the loss of even one animal can affect far more than a single life. Conservation teams in places such as Zimbabwe patrol habitat to find and remove snares before another animal discovers one.

08/26/2026

The Day I Learned How Many Hearts a Family Has

My name is Nali.

I used to think
a family was simple.

A mother
was the warm place
you crawled against
when the night air slipped
through the grass.

A father
was the tall shape
standing beyond the den,
ears lifted,
watching the darkness
for teeth.

And that was family.

Mother.
Father.
Pups.

I thought I understood everything.

I am still very young.

This should have warned me.

There is a great deal
I do not understand.

For example,

I do not understand
why Kito lets me bite his tail.

I have checked.

His tail is definitely attached to him.

I know this
because when I bite it
and run backward,
Kito comes with it.

Sometimes he turns his head
and looks at me
with the tired eyes
of someone reconsidering
every choice
that brought him to this moment.

Then I growl.

He growls.

I pounce.

And suddenly
we are rolling through the dust,
my paws in the air,
his nose against my belly,
my whole small body
bursting with laughter
that comes out
as squeaks and yips.

Kito is not my mother.

Kito is not my father.

But when I tumble too hard
and frighten myself,

he stops playing.

He touches his nose
to my head.

He waits
until I stand again.

I did not have a word
for that.

Then there is Amari.

Amari does not play much.

She sits near the den
while the others hunt.

She watches.

Always watches.

Her ears turn
toward sounds
I cannot hear yet.

Her nose lifts
toward stories in the wind
I have not learned to read.

When I wander too far,

Amari rises.

She does not shout.

She does not chase me.

She simply walks
between me
and whatever might be dangerous.

Once,
I tried to go around her.

She moved.

I tried the other side.

She moved again.

I thought
this was a wonderful game.

Amari did not.

Later,
when I fell asleep
with my nose buried
against her leg,

she did not move
for a very long time.

Amari is not my mother.

Amari is not my father.

But danger
has to go through her
before it reaches me.

I did not have a word
for that either.

And then there are
the hunters.

Oh,
the hunters.

We know when they are coming.

The whole earth seems to know.

Someone hears them first.

Someone smells them.

Then every pup
is suddenly awake,
legs scrambling,
ears bouncing,
tails waving
like grasses in a storm.

They return panting,
dusty,
tired,

their bellies carrying
what our little bellies need.

I run to whoever comes closest.

I do not ask,

Are you my mother?

Are you my father?

I only know:

You came back.

You came back.

You came back.

And somehow
you remembered me
while you were gone.

They lower their heads.

We crowd around them.

And the food they carried
across the land
becomes ours.

Sometimes I wonder
what it must feel like

to run beneath the enormous sky,
past thorn and dust,
past lion country,
past places where humans have cut
the earth with roads,

and still,
somewhere inside all that running,

remember
a little pup
waiting beside a den.

Remember
my stomach.

Remember
my growing bones.

Remember
that I am here.

Perhaps love
is partly remembering
who is waiting for you.

I am beginning
to think so.

There is Sefu,
who sleeps beside the entrance.

There is Zuri,
who cleans my face
even when I squirm.

There is Kito
and his endlessly biteable tail.

There is Amari,
who stands between me
and the unknown.

There are my brothers
who climb on me.

My sisters
who steal my sleeping place.

My mother,
whose smell
was the first thing
I knew of this world.

My father,
whose voice
I could recognize
even with my eyes closed.

And all around us,

more footsteps.

More noses.

More ears
turning toward danger.

More bodies
returning from hunts.

More patient grown-ups
allowing little teeth
to grab places
little teeth absolutely
do not belong.

One evening,
the sky becomes purple
beyond the grass.

The pack gathers.

Some lie together.

Some stand watch.

Pups crawl over paws
and backs
and tails.

I find myself
in the middle.

I cannot tell
where one body ends
and another begins.

My head rests
against someone's ribs.

Someone's paw
lies across my back.

My sister is breathing
against my ear.

Mother is nearby.

Father is nearby.

But so is everyone else.

And suddenly,

for the first time,

I understand something.

Maybe family
is not the answer
to the question,

Who made you?

Maybe sometimes
family is the answer
to other questions.

Who watches
when you are too small
to understand danger?

Who lets you play
until your legs are tired?

Who brings food home
and makes certain
the smallest mouths eat?

Who waits
when you fall?

Who stands
between you
and something frightening?

Who remembers you
when they are far away?

Who comes back?

I lie very still
beneath all those breaths.

My little heart
beats beneath
someone else's paw.

And I think:

Oh.

Oh.

This is what I belong to.

Not two hearts.

Not one den.

Not only the bodies
that gave me life.

I belong
to a whole circle
of returning.

A whole crowd
of watching.

A whole wild,
dust-covered,
tail-bitten,
hungry,
sleepy,
beautiful
we.

Tomorrow
I will probably forget
that I have learned anything.

I will chase a beetle.

I will sit on my brother.

I will bite Kito's tail again.

I am,
after all,
still a pup.

But tonight,

beneath an African sky
too large for my eyes
to hold,

I know one thing
I did not know yesterday.

A family can have
more hearts
than you can count.

And sometimes,

when you are very small,

that is exactly
how many hearts
it takes
to help you grow.

Written By:
K.A. Gagnon
August 26, 2026

In the Wild Today

Conservation status:

Endangered. African wild dogs remain one of Africa's most threatened large carnivores.

Location:

African wild dogs survive in fragmented populations across parts of sub-Saharan Africa, primarily where sufficiently large, connected wild landscapes remain.

Key Information Readers Should Know:

African wild dog packs are extraordinarily cooperative families. Pack members help protect pups, play with and care for them, and returning hunters share food with pups & other members of the pack.

Their survival depends heavily on one another. Today, habitat loss and fragmentation, conflict with people, snares, roads, and infectious diseases are among the dangers threatening these close-knit families. Protecting large connected habitats and reducing human-wildlife conflict are essential to their future.

08/26/2026

08/26/2026

The Forest Could See His Tail

My name is Bracken.

My brother’s name is Thistle.

And according to Thistle,
there has never been
a more invisible bobcat
in the whole history
of the Connecticut woods.

He tells me this
from behind a fern.

A fern
that reaches approximately
to his shoulders.

The rest of him—

his spotted back,
his enormous hind paws,
his little black-tipped tail
twitching with unbearable excitement—

is completely visible.

I stare at him.

He freezes.

I stare harder.

He lowers his belly
against the leaf litter
and whispers,

You cannot see me.

I can see
nearly all of him.

But there are things
a brother understands
without being taught.

So I look away.

I become very interested
in a fallen acorn.

I sniff a stone.

I inspect
an apparently fascinating
piece of bark.

Behind me,

the fern moves.

Once.

Twice.

Then comes
the tiniest rustle
of paws against August leaves.

Thistle is stalking me.

Or trying to.

Our mother
has shown us
what quiet looks like.

We have watched her
place one paw
before another

as though the earth
might break
if she steps too hard.

We have watched her ears
turn toward sounds
we cannot hear yet.

We have watched
her disappear into brush

without the brush
seeming to know
she passed through.

Someday,

we will understand
how much depends
upon such silence.

But today,

Thistle steps
on a dry stick.

CRACK.

He freezes.

I freeze.

Even the chickadee
above us
seems embarrassed for him.

Thistle remains perfectly still,

apparently believing
that if he does not move,

the stick
will reconsider
what happened.

I bite my lip.

He takes another step.

His tail wiggles.

One paw rises.

His shoulders lower.

His eyes become enormous.

He is fierce.

He is terrible.

He is—

still half behind
the wrong fern.

I cannot help it.

I pounce first.

Thistle squeaks.

We tumble
through the leaves,

two spotted storms
with oversized paws,

rolling over moss,
kicking at one another,
biting without biting,
clawing without claws,

learning the delicate rules
of loving someone
you were born
with teeth beside.

He gets on top.

I roll him off.

He grabs my ear.

I grab his cheek.

We separate.

Crouch.

Stare.

And suddenly,

the game begins again.

This time,
I am the hunter.

I creep
behind a fallen log.

My belly touches earth.

My paws soften.

My breathing changes.

There is something strange
about pretending.

Sometimes,

if you pretend long enough,

your body begins
to remember.

Place the paw here.

Not there.

Wait.

Listen.

Watch the ears.

Watch the shoulders.

Notice which way
the wind moves.

Know where your brother is

even when
you cannot see
all of him.

Especially
when you cannot see
all of him.

Thistle searches for me.

His ears turn.

His whiskers angle forward.

For once,
he does not see me.

For once,

I really am invisible.

Something ancient
and small
awakens inside my chest.

Not hunger.

Not yet.

Nothing has to die
for this lesson.

There is no desperate winter.

No empty belly.

No rabbit
running for its life.

There is only
my brother.

There is only
the warm green forest.

There is only
our mother
resting nearby,

one eye perhaps
more open
than we realize.

There is only childhood,

which the forest gives us
for such a little while.

I leap.

Thistle spins.

Too late.

I land across his back,

and down we go again,

through fern
and leaf
and sunlight.

If the trees
could laugh,

I think they would.

Because someday,

Thistle will crouch alone
beneath real cover.

Someday,

his paws will have grown
into themselves.

The ridiculous feet
he trips over now

will carry him
without sound.

Someday,

there may be no brother
waiting at the other end
of the stalk.

There may be hunger.

Snow.

Distance.

A heartbeat
hidden beneath brush.

Someday,
the game will become
the way he stays alive.

And perhaps
that is why
the forest lets us
learn it laughing.

Perhaps childhood
is where the wild
places its hardest lessons

inside joy.

Run,

so someday
you will know
how to chase.

Hide,

so someday
you will understand
cover.

Leap.

Miss.

Tumble.

Try again.

Learn the strength
of your legs
while the thing beneath them
is only your brother.

Learn the patience
of stillness

while nobody’s survival
depends upon
how long you can wait.

Learn the shape
of your own wildness

before the world
asks anything difficult
of it.

Thistle escapes me.

He races
toward another patch of ferns.

I follow.

Then he disappears
behind one.

Mostly.

His head vanishes.

His shoulders vanish.

His front legs vanish.

His entire backside
remains
in plain sight.

The little tail twitches.

I sit down.

For several moments,
neither of us moves.

Then his voice
comes softly
from the greenery.

Bracken?

Yes?

You cannot see me.

I look at
the two hind legs,

the spotted rump,

and the most obvious
bobbed tail
in Connecticut.

No,
I tell him.

Not at all.

The tail
wiggles with triumph.

And because I am his brother,

because the afternoon
is warm,

because our mother
is still near,

because adulthood
has not found us yet,

I crouch low
against the earth

and begin searching

for the invisible
little hunter

I can see
perfectly.

Written By:
K.A. Gagnon
August 25, 2026

In the Wild Today

Conservation status:

Least Concern on the IUCN Red List.

Location:

Bobcats live throughout Connecticut & have been documented in all eight counties. They use forests, brushy and rocky woodlands, swamps, and other places where thick cover gives them room to travel, hide, and hunt.

Key Information Readers Should Know:

Connecticut bobcats usually have about two kittens, although litters may contain one to four.
Their mother raises them without help from the male, and as the kittens grow, they begin traveling with her and learning the landscape they will eventually navigate alone.

Adult bobcats are patient ambush predators that depend on keen hearing, eyesight, concealment, stalking, and a carefully timed pounce.

In Connecticut, bobcats are protected furbearers with no hunting or trapping season.

Roads remain a serious danger: Connecticut DEEP continues to collect and study bobcats killed by vehicles each year.

08/26/2026

The River Kept Calling Us Back

My name is Reedskip.

Mama says we are going somewhere.

She has said this
three times already.

She stands where the river narrows
between willow roots,
water shining from her whiskers,
and gives the small chirrup
that means

come.

My sister, Pebblewish,
hears her.

I hear her too.

We are coming.

Probably.

But between Mama
and wherever Mama believes
we need to be

there is a bank of mud.

Not ordinary mud.

Perfect mud.

Dark and wet
and smooth where yesterday’s rain
came down through the trees
and softened the earth
until the riverbank became
something no sensible otter pup
could possibly walk past.

Pebblewish discovers it first.

She puts both front paws
at the top of the slope.

Looks down.

Looks at me.

I look at her.

There are moments
when a brother and sister
do not need language.

She drops onto her belly.

And goes.

Down the bank,
fast as a leaf in floodwater,

feet behind her,
tail bouncing,
eyes enormous,

until—

SPLASH.

She disappears.

For one second
there is only river.

Then her head pops up,
whiskers dripping,

and I know immediately

that whatever Mama wants

can wait.

I climb.

I slide.

Mud beneath my belly,
wind against my face,
the whole river rushing toward me
as if it has been waiting
all morning

for exactly this.

SPLASH.

Pebblewish tackles me
before I come up properly.

This is unfair.

So naturally
I tackle her back.

We tumble beneath the water,
twist through bubbles,
surface nose to nose,

and she makes the tiny
breathless sound
that means she is delighted
with herself.

Mama calls.

Come.

We swim toward her.

Almost.

Pebblewish glances
over her shoulder.

The bank is still there.

Of course it is.

We climb again.

This time
we go together.

Side by side.

Two muddy bellies.

Four muddy paws.

Two tails drawing
crooked lines behind us.

We push off.

The world becomes

mud,
sky,
river,

mud,
sky,
river—

SPLASH.

I land first.

Pebblewish lands mostly
on me.

She insists
this was an accident.

I know my sister.

It was not.

I chase her
through the shallows.

She dives.

I dive.

She hides beneath
a curtain of riverweed
with nearly her entire tail
sticking out.

I pretend
I cannot find her.

This pleases her enormously.

Mama calls again.

Come.

There is no anger in it.

Only Mama.

Only the voice
that has called us
from reeds,
from hollow logs,
from currents
that tugged too strongly
at our small bodies.

The voice that means

you belong over here.

You belong with me.

Pebblewish hears it too.

She swims to Mama
and presses her wet head
against Mama’s shoulder.

I follow.

Mama touches her nose
to the top of mine.

We begin moving
downriver.

For perhaps
seven whole body lengths.

Then I see another place
where the mud shines.

Pebblewish sees it
at the same moment.

We stop.

Mama keeps swimming.

We look at the bank.

We look at Mama.

We look at each other.

Perhaps childhood
is simply this:

knowing someone
is waiting for you

and still having enough safety
to be ridiculous.

Pebblewish scrambles upward.

I scramble after her.

Our paws slip.

She slides backward into me.

We both tumble
halfway down
in a heap of legs and tails,

then climb again
because falling
only made the idea better.

At the top,
Pebblewish shakes herself.

Mud flies everywhere.

Some lands
on my nose.

I sneeze.

She pounces.

We wrestle
until neither of us remembers
who started it,

until the river keeps moving
without asking us
to hurry,

until sunlight breaks
between the leaves
and lays gold
across Pebblewish’s wet back.

For one little moment

nothing is wrong.

No hunger.

No cold.

No current too strong
for our young legs.

No strange sound
beneath a bridge.

No reason
to know yet
that the world
can be dangerous.

There is only my sister.

There is only mud.

There is only the river
waiting below.

So we slide again.

And again.

And again.

Mama calls.

Come, little ones.

This time
we go.

Pebblewish swims beside me,
bumping her shoulder
against mine.

Mama leads us
around the bend
toward whatever
she has been trying
all morning
to show us.

I do not know
what waits there.

Maybe fish.

Maybe a quiet place
beneath the roots.

Maybe another lesson
about currents
or scent
or staying close.

But I know this:

behind us,
our belly marks
remain in the mud,

two crooked shining paths
running down
to the water.

The river will smooth them away.

Rain will come.

The bank will change.

We will grow.

There will be mornings
when Mama’s call
means hurry.

There will be seasons
when being wild
asks more of us
than playing.

But not this morning.

This morning
the river gave us
a hill made for sliding.

Mama gave us
three extra calls.

Pebblewish gave me
a mouthful of mud.

And I gave it back.

Sometimes
a childhood does not need
to become a lesson.

Sometimes
nothing terrible
has to happen
for a small life
to matter.

Sometimes
two young otters
may simply race
up a muddy riverbank,

throw themselves
toward the shining water,

and trust

that when they surface,

their family
will still be there

calling them home.

Written By:
K.A. Gagnon
August 25, 2026

In the Wild Today

Conservation status:

Least Concern on the IUCN Red List.

Location:

North American river otters live throughout much of Canada and the United States, with populations also extending into parts of Mexico.

They inhabit rivers, streams, lakes, wetlands, marshes & coastal waterways where healthy aquatic ecosystems provide food, shelter, and safe places to raise young.

Key Information Readers Should Know:

River otter pups are born helpless and remain dependent on their mother for months while they learn to swim, dive, hunt, travel, and recognize danger.

Young otters are famously playful & behaviors that look like pure fun—including wrestling, chasing, splashing, and sliding down muddy or snowy banks—can also help them develop coordination, strength, social skills, and confidence in the water.

Although the species is currently considered Least Concern overall, river otters still depend on clean waterways and healthy wetland habitats.

Water pollution, habitat loss, vehicle collisions, accidental trapping, fishing gear & other human disturbances can threaten individual otters and local populations.

And sometimes, conservation begins with remembering what all that habitat is protecting: not only survival, but muddy bellies,
sibling games, a mother calling from downstream, and the ordinary,
precious happiness of growing up wild.

08/26/2026

Mama, Are Those Little Moons?

My name is Bramble.

Tonight,
Mama says I am big enough
to ride where the night can see me.

I wrap my toes into her fur
and press my belly
against the warm hill of her back.

Mama?

Are we really going out there?

Past the hollow log?

Past the blackberry tangle?

Past the place where the creek
makes that soft talking sound?

Is this where the whole night lives?

Mama,
what are those?

Those round yellow things
glowing beside the houses?

Are they little moons?

Did somebody catch pieces of the sky
and hang them above their doors?

Do they stay there all night?

Do they know the real moon
is higher?

Do they ever get lonely
being so low?

Mama,
why are you walking
where the trees stop?

Why does the earth turn hard here?

Why does it smell like rain
even though it has not rained?

Why are there white lines
painted across the ground?

Are they telling us something?

Can you read them?

Mama?

What is that sound?

What is—

Mama!

What was that?

Was that an animal?

The enormous thing
with two white eyes?

Why did it roar
without opening a mouth?

Why did the wind strike us
after it went past?

Why did you freeze?

Why is your heart
beating underneath me
so fast?

Mama,
why are we waiting?

Why are you looking left?

Why are you looking right?

Why are you looking left again?

What could come from the darkness
that makes even you
stand so still?

Can we go back
to the blackberry tangle?

No?

Then may I hold tighter?

Mama,
do those impossible animals
ever sleep?

Do they have babies
riding on their backs too?

Do their babies know
how frightening they sound?

If one sees us,
will it stop?

Does it know
you are somebody’s mother?

Does it know
I am up here?

Does it know
I am small?

Mama,
what is that smell?

That wonderful,
terrible,
hundred-things-at-once smell?

Is it food?

Is it rotten food?

Can food be both?

Why is it coming
from that tall black thing
beside the house?

Can we look inside?

Why not?

What is plastic?

Why does it smell like chicken?

Why does the chicken smell
like soap?

Why does the soap smell
like strawberries?

Why does everything humans throw away
still smell as though
it wants to be found?

Mama,
why are you pulling me away?

Would it hurt me?

Would I get stuck?

Would the good smell
turn bad inside my belly?

How do you know
which things in this strange place
are gifts
and which things only smell like gifts?

Will you teach me?

Mama?

There is someone
behind that window.

Did you see?

Two eyes.

A face.

Why did the face come closer?

Why did the mouth open?

Why is that human
pointing at us?

Are we doing something wrong?

Mama?

Why did another human
come running?

Why did the voice get loud?

Why did the door slam?

Why are you walking faster?

Did they think
we were coming inside?

We weren't coming inside,
were we?

We were only passing through?

We were only looking
for beetles
and fallen fruit
and something safe enough
to eat?

Why would anyone be frightened
of Mama?

Is it because of your teeth?

But don't they know
you only show them
when you are frightened too?

Is it because you hiss?

But isn't hissing
another way of saying,

Please don't come closer?

Isn't running away
another way of saying,

I don't want to fight you?

Mama,
do humans have a sound
for that?

Do they have a sound
for please leave my baby alone?

Would they understand
if you could make it?

Would they understand
that you have spent
every night
keeping me alive?

Would they understand
how carefully you cross
every open place?

How you listen
before you move?

How you give me
the safest part
of yourself
to ride upon?

Mama,
why does that little human
at the upstairs window
look different?

Why isn't that one shouting?

Why is its hand
pressed against the glass?

Why is it smiling?

Why did it wave?

Was that for me?

Can I wave back?

No?

Do opossums wave?

Could I invent it?

Mama,
why is the little human
still watching us?

Do you think
it knows I am a baby?

Can it see my toes
holding your fur?

Can it see
how I tuck my nose
against your shoulder
when the impossible animals roar past?

Can it tell
you are my whole world?

Do humans have mothers
who become whole worlds too?

Then shouldn't they know?

Mama,
what is that ahead?

Another road?

Do we have to cross it?

Why are there so many roads
between one patch of trees
and another?

Did the trees used to touch?

Did the creek always have
a fence beside it?

Did the dark always come
in such small pieces?

Where did the rest of it go?

Mama,
are you afraid?

You don't have to answer.

I can feel it.

Can babies feel things
through fur?

Can courage feel
like trembling
and walking anyway?

Is that what you are doing?

Mama,
when I am grown,
will I have to learn
all these roads too?

Will I learn which yards
have dogs?

Which fences have holes?

Which bright places
are too bright?

Which smells mean food?

Which smells mean danger?

Which humans will close a door?

Which humans will open one?

Which will shout?

Which will simply
let me pass?

Will I remember
how you carried me
through my first night here?

Will I remember
your back beneath my feet?

Will I remember
that every time
the roaring animals came,
you put your whole body
between them
and me?

Mama?

The houses are behind us now.

Can you hear the creek again?

Is that our blackberry tangle?

Is that the old oak?

Are we almost home?

May I loosen my toes?

Not yet?

All right.

Mama?

One more question.

When that little human
stood at the window
and watched us disappear,

do you think
it wondered about us too?

Do you think
it asked where we were going?

Do you think
it wondered whether I had a name?

Do you think
it understood
that I was someone's baby?

Do you think
tomorrow,
when someone calls us ugly,
or dirty,
or frightening,

that little human might remember
two small ears
above a mother's shoulders?

Might remember
my nose tucked into your fur?

Might remember
how carefully
you carried me across the road?

Might say,

But they were only going home?

Mama?

Could one human knowing that
make the night
a little safer?

Could one human
teach another?

Could another
teach another?

Could there someday be
enough people
who understand us
that you won't have to run
when a porch light finds your face?

Could there someday be
a road
we don't have to fear?

Could there someday be
a neighborhood
where nobody mistakes
being frightened
for being dangerous?

Mama?

Are those fireflies
over the creek?

Are those the real
little moons?

Can we follow them home?

And until we get there,

may I keep holding on?

Written By:
K.A. Gagnon
August 25, 2026

In the Wild Today

Conservation status:

Least Concern on the IUCN Red List. Virginia opossums remain widespread and adaptable, but being classified as Least Concern does not mean individual animals are safe from human-caused dangers.

Location:

Virginia opossums range from Costa Rica through Mexico and much of the United States, extending north into parts of Canada. They are native primarily east of the Rocky Mountains & have also been introduced along portions of the western United States and British Columbia.

Key Information Readers Should Know:

Virginia opossums are nocturnal marsupials, and young joeys really do leave their mother's pouch and spend several weeks riding on her back as they continue developing.

They are frequently misunderstood because frightened opossums may hiss, bare their many teeth, or appear threatening, but they generally prefer retreat to confrontation and are considered non-aggressive wildlife neighbors.

Life beside humans can also be dangerous.

Opossums are attracted to accessible garbage and pet food, and collisions with vehicles are an important source of mortality; Connecticut DEEP identifies humans and automobiles as their greatest threat in the state.

Keeping trash secured, bringing pet food indoors at night, slowing down for wildlife & allowing an opossum room to move away can make suburban neighborhoods safer for mothers like the one carrying Bramble.