Hope

The mice and voles and chipmunks
rule supreme in this kingdom.
By their numbers.
They are keen to recycle
by chewing through the plastic covering
on all the wires in the big tin spa that
sits
mostly parked.
Ignorant, they, of the monstrous cost
to the slow two-legged creature
which always enters the spa
just before it growls and moves itself about.

I thought to find a cat
interested in adopting a home.
And name her Hope.
Hoping she might take to hunt
the grounds and ease
the kingdom of over-industrious
rodents
chewing wires.
Relieving, me, of the need to waste
resources that could be used instead
to grow grain and flowers
to feed the mice and voles and chipmunks.

But Hope would take the birds
feeding outside my window.
By the numbers.
Leaving the invertebrate realm then
unchecked from chewing through
the grain and flowers in the garden
growing
under sun.
Hope, she, then was not a plan
bereft of unexpected consequences
for grain and flowers and mice
and voles and chipmunks.

–

The deer barged through fencing
in search of cover crop,
by the numbers,
sown to enrich the ground over winter.
Undeterred by electric charge
that would knock your Uncle Vinny
on
his ass.
Pushing, they, through the South
and straight out through the North
confused by a poor planting of rye,
eating weeds and chaff.

I thought to adopt a dog
bred for farmland herding.
And call him Hope.
Hoping he might persuade the deer
the annoyance was too much and
to keep to their own side
of
the river.
Hounded, they, to the forest stands
to their hearts content.
And let the cover crop grow to a height
worth grazing in the first place.

But Hope would bring the rabbit,
skin ripped from shoulder to rump,
flesh glistening, with frightened eyes.
Stealing food that feeds the fox
that keeps the rabbit tribe in check
and saves the carrots from
hungry
young bunnies.
Hope, he, then was not a plan
without danger to the balance of
fox and rabbit, enacting daily
the ancient fables told around the fire.

–

So I continue to repair the fence,
to fix the chewed wire in the vole spa.
The hopes of my local mechanics.
Hoping a bit of wild will scratch
a living out of a small woods, small pond,
and a field with plenty to spare
for
the table.
Hope, then, that my tithe to the mechanic
and the helpful hardware man
helps send in turn the children to school
providing for the preservation of the village.