A Beaver Dam is a Work of Art

In the spring, they start their work
And begin plucking and mucking through the woods by the creek.
I watch from the bridge, intent
On their progress.
Stick by stick, they construct a stout dam
For shelter and to hold back the water.

All summer, I watch them, busy in the water,
Never satisfied with their work
Adding mud and twigs to their dam.
Low and slow becomes the creek
As their efforts fly and fast skill begets progress,
While their eyes stays fixed on their prize with honest intent.

I enjoy their artistry, with observant interest as my only intent,
But others find disaster with their residence in the water.
While the beavers sweat through to their final progress,
Others make plans to excise the beavers’ work.
A plan to trap them by the creek
And mark destruction for the dam!

While I am captivated by the construction of the dam,
I dwell on the other’s intent.
My hope is that the beavers remain secure in the creek
And their sanctuary stable in the water.
That structure embodies the power of their work
And I see shame in its destruction for the other’s progress.

In the end, what matters more than progress?
A crane perches at the lip of the stream and rips the dam
From the shore, collapsing the beavers’ work
With malicious intent.
Glittering teeth drag the lodge deep into the water
To be washed away by the creek.

When I stand on the bridge or walk by the creek,
I look for the old signs of progress.
I envision beavers paddling through the water,
Or stretched across the stream, a bristling dam
Stuffed with woody intent;
Evidence of new beavers, hard at work.

I imagine them at work, cruising through the creek,
Their entire intent on any progress
They might make on a dam and diverting the water.