I had a groundhog in my back yard.
It ate my lilies and the grass leaving a platter of dirt
in their place. A wildlife trapper I called caught and carted it
away. He sent me a picture of my groundhog bravely
striding into the forest of its new life, tail high in the air,
bristly like a brush, indicating it was frightened,
and instantly I missed my groundhog and wanted him back,
even if it meant the decimation of all my pretty garden.
I am perverse in wishing this, in longing for the return
of a rodent that bothered me, and sentimental, too,
because, really, no one likes groundhogs. Miles from home,
in another life, my room looks out on a groundhog burrow.
I left a carrot stick by the burrow door, a small gift,
which just now, I saw between the groundhog’s two front paws.
He was standing up, warily looking around,
uncertain and confused about what would happen next.