The woodchucks, aka groundhogs, are still deep in hibernation in this part of Vermont, according to naturalist Mary Holland. So you get an early-light bluejay photo for the day!
I spent some time with Alfred Godin's guide, Wild Mammals of New England, to craft this poem.
The Woodchuck: For Groundhog Day
Clover. Alfalfa. Sprouts from the early garden, carrot,
peas, squash, corn, even cabbage although you might think
those could make a woodchuck’s farts stink, swirling
in a poorly ventilated burrow. Deep hibernators, fasting
through dark winters, they dream of asters, dahlias, hostas.
Their hungers pulse up from the deep midwinter snow
and desire is what the mother woodchuck knows, frantic
hunger, a poor preparation for a month of pregnancy: April
devours her body for fetal growth, until at last the babies
pass from the womb, fasten their desperate lips to nipples,
tiny and pink, fattening in five weeks to furry rompers. Diets
meant to deprive can’t connect to such needs; it is one thing
to spend months curled around some inner emptiness
(lost love, or radiated organs), when it can’t be helped. But oh,
what a feast the mama groundhog greets in June: grunting,
squeaking, sucking on succulent specialties. Suspecting,
in her wordless appreciation, that you planted this all
for her vegetarian vocalizing delight.
