Magi

She's still out there—
a perfect brown hillock
crouched in the grass.

It won't be long
before hunger calls her again
to move from where she rests,
to return to the task
of endless eating.

So much of her day is spent
seeking out sweet clover blossoms,
the bitter leaves of chard.

I've watched her with her offspring—
at least two litters
so far this year—

I've observed her apparent
indifference to their journey
from nest to field.

She seems to ignore them
as they hop tentatively
across the lawn,
stopping here and there
to nibble a leaf or two.

She doesn't urge them back
to the shelter of the natal nest,
the one she fashioned
of grass and weeds,

and lined with soft tufts of fur
tugged from her own belly.
She lets them go.