3am in roanoke is when the city starts acting feral again

traffic finally dies down
tv glow leaks out of apartment windows
somebody’s dog barks at nothing for twenty straight minutes

and that’s when the skunk shows up

Flying V

slow as a snail walking toward bad news

tiny feet across cracked pavement
tail up like it owns the whole block
moving through the dark with absolute confidence

you catch it first by sound

rustling near the trash cans
plastic shifting
the little pause before something decides whether you’re a threat or just another exhausted human standing outside too late

everybody freezes during a skunk encounter

doesn’t matter how tough they act normally

suddenly it’s diplomacy

slow movements
careful breathing
silent negotiations happening under a flickering porch light

the skunk sniffs the air
keeps moving
completely unbothered by
politics
text messages left unanswered

meanwhile you’re standing there barefoot at 3am
holding a drink you forgot you made
thinking about how weird it is
that wild things still wander through the city like this

through alleys
through backyards
past chain link fences and broken lawn chairs

like roanoke never fully stopped being woods

the skunk disappears eventually

under somebody’s porch
behind the hedges
back into whatever hidden route nocturnal creatures use to cross the valley

and the night closes back up around it

quiet again

except for that memory lingering
and the strange feeling
that you just got visited by something older than the city itself