Classic Poem

All spring I"d been playing hide and seek
with the groundhog living under the shed,
looking out for it when I went in or out
of the house, peeking from behind the garage
or sitting still enough reading in a lawn chair
that it would poke its head out tentatively
then venture farther by degrees to munch
my weedy lawn or just lounge in the sun,
our common pleasure. Its roguishness amused me,
as did the way it bolted toward the shed,
revealing the russet fur of its outstretched legs.

How different (though about the same size)
was the giant snapping turtle I saw one day
methodically high-stepping across the yard,
its thick, uncircumcised head extended menacingly
and its spined tail, like a bronze-age weapon,
stabbing out from under its cataphracted shell.
It elevated itself on fat stubby legs
as I approached, then slowly bore itself
like an armored vehicle into the woods,
returning to its separate world, ancient
but somehow concurrent with our own.

But the groundhog, or groundhogs — because now
there were two — were our warm-blooded tenants.
So I was glad at first when a young one
appeared on the lawn. But something was wrong:
it hauled itself pathetically with its front legs,
dragging its back legs behind, their dark, rubbery
underpaws upturned, like useless flippers.
Not long for this world, I thought, as I coaxed it
nevertheless back toward the shed, thinking again
of the snapper, of its barbed jaw clamping down,
unable to keep myself from taking sides.