Poetry

January Walking Meditation in Seattle

When it rains like this
I look in at soaked yards and wonder
how mole hills retain integrity.

And doesn’t the mound of upturned dirt
hide a well-like passageway to a tunneled home?
So how do moles keep dry, or, at least, undrowned,

in these deluges? Moles are everywhere, invaders
of our civic plats, mocking our property lines
(as if they mean anything in the true world

of claw and tail). For instance, at the panoramic overlook
where metropolis and bay glitter glamorously—
despite the storm, mole hummocks

humbly punctuate the lawn. Each mole cake
of rock and soil proves who the celebrants must be—
the slim, blind chiselers below the grass.

They survive these downpours;
evidence pops up peninsula-wide.
We consider featuring the new topography

with a top-scatter of wildflower mix
or clover seed, glad the moles aren’t gone,
glad the moles don’t drown, awed by the soft, tiny engineers.

Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.