The rhythmic thumping of a monstrous digger at the quarry two miles away. My father hollers from his front porch to come look at a mole.
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The rhythmic thumping of a monstrous digger at the quarry two miles away. My father hollers from his front porch to come look at a mole.
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DIGGERS
It will outdo them yet. The quarry diggers
are no match to the mole who has been there
before they were, their backhoes and drills
disturbing the smaller caves with bigger ones.
A small hole is big enough when all one wants
really is a shield against thumping diggers
who remain unaware of their macabre dreams
of ripping the side of mountains to prepare
unmarked tombs for their yet unborn children.
The mole will be there in its hole, taking over
with a colony of small cave diggers when quarries
close down at the siren of a final day when days
are done, and there is little hope beyond sundown.
From porches we will holler: In moles we trust.
—Albert B. Casuga
08-29-11
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Hear, hear!