Under the leaves, under <br />the first loose <br />levels of earth <br />they're there -- quick <br />as beetles, blind <br />as bats, shy <br />as hares but seen <br />less than these -- <br />traveling <br />among the pale girders <br />of appleroot, <br />rockshelf, nests <br />of insects and black <br />pastures of bulbs <br />peppery and packed full <br />of the sweetest food: <br />spring flowers. <br />Field after field <br />you can see the traceries <br />of their long <br />lonely walks, then <br />the rains blur <br />even this frail hint of them -- <br />so excitable, <br />so plush, <br />so willing to continue <br />generation after generation <br />accomplishing nothing <br />but their brief physical lives <br />as they live and die, <br />pushing and shoving <br />with their stubborn muzzles against <br />the whole earth, <br />finding it <br />delicious.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moles/
