Voles and Me

Our voles are happy. Our lawn is their refuge, their Shangri-la.

The snow is, to use the words from Good King Wenceslas, “deep and crisp and even.” I know they’re under there, feasting, holding convocations, building cities with the duff they gather.

How do I know this? Every spring, when the snow melts, their network of paths and nests is laid bare. They’ve nubbed the grass flat to the earth in patches big enough to build a Smart Growth skinny house on.

If only I had a more charitable attitude toward them, I could praise myself as nearly a St. Francis of Assissi for providing such a wonderful home.

But when spring comes, I look at the devastation and grumble.

For now, I know a grand time is being had by the little ones and I’m their begrudging benefactor.

 

 

 

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