When I sensed, the world was a lie (a pretty one)

There is no creek,
but there is a burble,
and both burbling
and the mud- and rock-cracked
creek (though not here)
could be clearer
if not for the small, hunched raccoon
that while absent appears
cheeky as it troubles
the creek’s bottom (not)
to conjure crawdads (also not).
Its imagined blur of paws,
(were it here) would
feel much better
than any imaginary eyes could see
(ours and its included),
what with the mucky clouds
it kicks up as it shifts
slime-licked pebbles,
to make the seeing harder.
Those eyes (ours not its)
would grow tired not seeing.
They might pause unfocused
and feel the puff of a gray flapping –
an unseen bird’s flaps, perhaps
a dove, that lacking presence
can only be heard, and felt.
Then it disappears
(the flaps, the raccoon, our eyes, the creek)
into the burbling of soup-thick air
as if none of it was
ever here (it wasn’t).