along a blacktopped road, up ahead

you see an animal blur across your lane.

Another groundhog you suppose,

wonder what’s tagging behind,

young’uns maybe in a clumsy little parade–

it’s hard to say when sun dazzles

the windshield that way & then you’re there,

you brake & oh oh oh a beaver hauls

a chiseled sapling longer than your leg.

Tangled branches & leaves tambourine.

The beaver vanishes into emerald spears

of grass that curtain a wetland stream.

Unlike the day at Woodcock Dam, you park the car,

ready to open the cargo hatch,

pause before you release your dogs.

Two men step from the trail, both dressed

in blaze orange & camo & oh no no no

that’s a beaver that dangles from one

man’s hand. You see trapper’s trophy

& your mind wants to dive, get away,

but spellbound you stare at plush pelt,

webbed feet & waffle-ironed paddle tail.

Moved, you ask the beaver’s forgiveness

as you reach for feral fur, scrutinize

four teeth the color of tangerines. The young hunter

assures you dogs are safe from traps

so long as they don’t swim underwater.

He laughs. You nod. Pelts aren’t fetching

much, he says, he’ll cut the beaver up

for coyote bait. You glance away

but recall the trapper’s face again the day

you find a crumpled beaver decomposing in Conneaut

Marsh. Her syrupy odor parks in your throat

& nose. You wonder if that’s fragrance of castor

you breathe or beaver broth as it vinegars

on a dirt road. Flies chainsaw in a fevered pitch,

a thousand green eyes stud rotten beaver flesh,

the beaver’s mouth a mosh pit where maggots

jacknife & whiplash. You puzzle out a film

of beaver blood that captures light, call to mind

sun struck, shaggy conifers at Marble

Creek, Idaho wilderness. An old abandoned

splash dam like a kid’s crude fort, you

& hiking buddy Carrie crouch inside, spot

a curious stick half covered with silt, reflecting

in a minnow pool. Carrie’s hand reaches

underwater, but the stick pulls away, pool craters

with a shattering splash, beaver’s blocky

head pops up, turns around, & stares at you

face to face. You conjure wild things differently now,

remembering how the beaver held your gaze,

decades later, still ponder what it felt like

when she looked into your eyes.