The beaver says

The garden’s
back, arched round against the winter gales has fallen

into itself,
laughing cracks of cold into the warming air.    

Footfall
dives deep into the soft tunnels of burrowing moles.

Channels
through mud-dull grass mark the meandering ways of mice.

Miniature worm
castings mimic the mole mounds coiled through the

garden overlooking
the pond, half black water, half white ice.

The beaver slick,
dark, and indifferent to observation,

too hungry after
winter’s length to slap his tail in warning,

glides
arrow-true to shore for pale roots and tender shoots and says

it's spring.