Pond Notes

Our resident beaver heads out

at dawn, eager to surveil its water

kingdom, repeats the circuit

when dusk tints the sky. He swims

unhurried along the marsh line,

marking the willows he plans

to gnaw into submission

when darkness falls.

Last autumn he stripped the banks,

even took down the American Olive,

despite the fencing wound like a hug

around the branching trunk. His regal

laps announce that he is emperor

of his domain, his tail slap a stern

warning that in this natural world,

genus Castor rules.