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