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