Kim and I are home from a wonderful 15 days in England. A handful of those days were spent in the southern countryside where we were able to explore a number of wooded trails. One trail led past a badger den (called a sett). I didn't leave that countryside with a badger sighting under my belt (We even snuck about that trail at 11:00 one night, flashlights in hand.), but I did leave with a poem.
THE BADGER
Badger, I wager,
has hidden away.
He's huddled at home
in that hole in the clay.
He's deepily, sleepily,
drowsily dozing,
snuggled and snoring,
or so I'm supposing.
I ought not to bother him.
This much is true.
But yet I've not met one
apart from a zoo.
I'd hoped we'd be friendly.
We'd spend time together.
We'd chat about earthworms
and wet, winter weather.
But Badger won't budge,
though I should not begrudge him.
He'll lie out of sight
for the moonlight to nudge him.
And then, as the twilight
starts painting the skies,
I'll climb into bed,
and the badger will rise.
- Eric Ode, 2018
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