The little shrews

who’ve sucked

the roots of my aspens

during the heavy snows

march away in spring

up the mountain

in single file,

leaving a mess of silken balls

strewn across my territory


Good for them,

good for the life they lead

though they turn me

against my morals

by daydreaming poisons

and inventing special traps


Nature doesn’t heed

No Trespassing signs

nor does man heed

the nature of voles

or the importance of trees