Down by the cabin where the mushrooms glow, My raccoon strums soft in the evening’s flow. Pink banjo twinkles, a lullaby tune, Under the hush of a crescent moon. Vest full of stories, paws full of grace, He plays for the fireflies dancing in place. The flowers lean in, the owls keep time, As twilight turns banjo into rhyme. He hums of the river, the shimmer of rain, Of nettle and nectar and thistle and grain. His whiskers twitch with a rhythm so true, Each note a memory the forest once knew. The fox taps a paw, the badger sways slow, The wind hums along in a whispering flow. Even the shadows come out to hear, The raccoon’s refrain, so tender, so clear. He sings of the stars that stitched up the sky, Of acorns and echoes and dreams drifting by. A chorus of crickets joins in the refrain, Their wings like tambourines tapping the plain. Then silence falls like a velvet mist, He pauses, eyes closed, in a moment kissed. A tear from the moon rolls down a pine, The raccoon breathes deep, then picks the line So pick, little raccoon, pick sweet and slow, Let the forest remember the songs you know. Each note a petal, each chord a breeze You’re the bard of the hollow, the soul of the trees. And when morning tiptoes over the hill, The banjo rests quiet, the forest is still. But deep in the moss, the melody stays A raccoon’s lullaby woven in rays.
