|DRY AS CRACKER CRUMBS|
|URSA HAS UNEARTHED|
A wooly bear caterpillar has succumbed to the dryness and lies as still and stiff as a fuller brush. I pick it up to make sure it's not just playing possum, but its bristles break off in my hand. It has shrunk itself into half its usual length. I turn it over and its six arms are curled inward, the claws still sharp enough to cling to my thumb.
|WOOLY BEAR CATERPILLAR|
The mole has a thick, grey pelt and a strange, elongated nose—almost a tiny trunk, no visible eyes, and big, flat, pink hands, like paddles, with long, tough nails. The hands are turned backwards, awkward-looking to us, but suiting its life of swimming through the earth just fine. I know an unearthed mole doesn't have much chance of survival, and within minutes it is dead. Our yard has been free of moles for many years, and now we trip over mole hills at every turn. I'm not exactly sorry that it's dead, but I stand for a moment and bless its solitary life, burrowing, burrowing through the earth, always searching for something.
BURROW IN PEACE;