Hear Erica Funkhouser read this poem (in RealAudio).

I've come back a few times,
seen you hurrying away
and, once, seen your eyes,
the green of night.
Hope for this, hope for that --
who is free from such nonsense?
The small changes in the dirt
at your entrance,
the disappearance of grass:
I note these in your absence.

You should just stay where you are.
You and your dark house
will grow together.
You'll reach the walls,
they'll welcome your fur.
I'll know you're in there somewhere,
foraging invisibly.
Good for you, then.
Keep home.