The enemy is there all right creeping along,
Zigzagging a knoll-trail upon the sand,
Tunneling the clay in his own secret place.
In his dark passionate moments he procrastinates
Mother nature's plans, and denies us spring's
Rapture days.
Does he hate spring?
Does he hate beauty?
Who will naught his wanton-ill, and let the
Flowers bloom again?
Major scents the danger, and craftily noses
Each fissure letting his energetic paws plunge the soft earth. Sand-flares illuminates like
Fourth of July fireworks as he lunges forward
Digging harder, faster, and deeper into the sand.
He carefully noses the victim's hole, sits upright,
Gives his tail a victory-salute, and tumbles out a
Battered mole.
I close my eyes, and see tulips in bloom.