The River Rat

The River Rat


Along the Mississippi
where muskrats swim and play
a man in tune with nature
celebrates the day.

River Rat they call him,
a name of which he's proud
though he's not one for boasting,
not uppity or loud.

Following the seasons
he traps or shoots to eat,
fishes from an old canoe,
come snow or summer heat.

Green things in their season
are gathered from the ground,
for medicines or table;
his needs are not profound.

Quietly he censures those
who make of death a game,
who kill for sport and brag of it
instead of feeling shame.

He has no love for cities,
which steal the land away
so generations yet unborn
will ne'er see light of day.

Farming, too, offends him.
In slow and measured voice
he shares with us his sympathy
for captives with no choice.

His prey must take its chances
knowing what's entailed;
wild things run instinctively.
A time or two he's failed.

To watch the changing seasons,
that's his chief delight;
the passage of migrating birds
in slow majestic flight;

The river when it ices up,
the breath of springtime thaw,
a water lily carpet like
no townsfolk ever saw;

then melancholy autumn,
the colors of the fall
and soon will come a shiver
from the wild coyote's call.

Christine
© 2004