Miracle enough was that I saw

the young mole at all—exposed

as he was, trundling clumsily,

a furry chocolate sausage with legs

crossing an ocean of asphalt alone,

snout to the ground, pressing

forward at top speed, which is to say,

not very fast at all. In fact,

every few inches he stumbles, does

a barrel roll, rights himself. The road

is no place for a mole: intractable, impossible

to burrow. I stop in the middle.

At this pace he'll fall prey

to a cornering car, stooping hawk

or loping cat. Tenderness traps me,

drawn to become his unlikely ally.

I redirect with my sneaker, stand guard

as a car rounds the bend. Up against

the insurmountable curb, wouldn’t it be

easy to leave him—let what may be, be—

but instead I bend, clasp the velvet

of his midsection, deposit him

beneath shrubbery where instinct

drives his little digger hands

to turn earth, tunnel under,

rump waggling until he vanishes,

not so unlike watching my own son

drive off alone for the first time, the distance

lengthening forever between us.

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First published in Cholla Needles 2022.