12.29.16 Neighbors with silver fur and tails

     Outside, I began noticing my neighbor possum, an adolescent , who comes round in the evening now with winter and hunger, with great hopes for sustenance at the compost , despite their great journey to get there. 
     I love possums. I love small mammals. I guess I love everything alive, in some ways. 
     I've rescued a lot of possums. Big ones, loads of babies. 
     I know how tough it is for them to survive. And how much we need them to.
     So I started putting out a little dish of our very nice dry dog food. And I'd peek out in the evening, watching them come up the walk, and , amazed, dig in. I don't usually do this with wild animals, except birds. And I get that until Spring, what you begin you must continue.
     By the third night, they'd become accustomed. Ate some, went off around the bird feeding table to nab a few delicious mice who scoot out to gather foodstuffs, and then return and finish off the dog pellets.
     Tonight they carried off the tiny plastic dish. I'm not certain why . Probably still smelled of food.
     Last week after that snow, and before the subsequent rains that erased it, I was out in the fields, way down low, and saw possum prints in the snow, with their delicate galaxy of pads, making their way across the broad field.
     So I'm guessing they're not fair game to the owl, the fox, nor coyote.
     Outside my front door now, in the relative darkness, remain their intricate footprints , decorating our front stoop. By the small mountain range, home of so many sparrows, here in the relative darkness.