woodchuck, whistlepig, Marmota monax
I’ve seen no fresh rootling since fall
the burrow holes — one north, one east —
lie leaf covered, ringed by dry rubble
yet my groundhog can’t be still asleep
not in this too warm faux-spring
when black bears are out, gouging
black smears across muddy ground
hungry to nobble the feeblest scent
thoughts of my groundhog energize me
— warm brown bristles, snub nose —
likely I’ll find him when a cat on a sill
stiffens & stares — look, life, out there
I too might well, with warmth, emerge
No comments:
Post a Comment