A hollow beyond the field,
before the woods, too wet to farm,
too small to clear. Useless, until

the beavers moved in. They dammed
the trickle of creek, got a pond
going, built themselves a fine house. 

The herons came next, great blue,
little green. The posed for hours, stiletto
beaks pointed at the new water. 

Deer and raccoon followed,
leaving heart-shaped, hand-shaped
calling cards in the mud. 

Come spring, the shaded banks
glowed with trillium. Come summer,
the trees shone with fireflies.