The Woodchuck

by Susan Wheeler

The walls of the cabin were damp with rain.
The honeworts at the door were sotted with scent.
All night the woodchuck gnawed at the floor,
Sawtooth incisor, unearthly call.

I, in the eaves, and you, at your post, stared
In the dark and the silence it rent. Dawn.
Damp with rain were the walls of the cabin.
And the honeworts outside, sotted with scent. 

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