Consequential

Because the road will press a body into the pavement 
until it is washed
in summer storms, I dragged the woodchuck’s rigid body 
to the shoulder with mullein leaves.
We called them lamb’s-ear 
when we were young. Mammals,
milk bred, the blackest soil
means growth. 
These were dry and yellowed 
in the gravel ditch; not the scoop of remnant
valley prairies
circled in split-levels where kits sleep 
in the brush.  
He was heavier than I expected, arched 
his body in protest 
and darted 
into the ditch; but this
is not true. Stunning lies
rub wild 
parsnip oils 
into my unfurred skin. This means my arms will blister 
in the sun. 
The white line balances my bike between
passing cars and the plunge
of pastures. I crush a grasshopper 
under tire. Cows graze.
When the bridge is out
mosquitos pollinate 
the most blood.
Whatever hit the woodchuck did not open him. A murder 
dots the sky 
in black feathers. 
Mourning doves sag the powerlines. 
					                                  His eyes were open.
 

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Nicolette Ratz (she/her) is a Wisconsin-raised poet and naturalist. Her poems have appeared in The Citron Review, Ghost City Review, Bramble, Hominum, and The Meadow. She is drawn to winter and cold places, even in summer.