Ave atque vale

Even though I managed to swerve around the lump

of groundhog lying on its back on the road,

he traveled with me for miles,

a quiet passenger

who passed the time looking out the window

enjoying this new view of the woods

he once hobbled around in,

sleeping all day and foraging at night,

rising sometimes to consult the wind with his snout.

Last night he must have wandered

onto the road, hoping to slip

behind the curtain of soft ferns on the other side.

I see these forms every day

and always hope the next one ahead

is a shredded tyre, a discarded brown coat,

but there they are, assuming

every imaginable pose for death’s portrait.

This one I speak of, for example,

the one who rode with me for miles,

reminded me of a small Roman citizen,

with his prosperous belly,

his faint smile,

and his one stiff forearm raised

as if he were still alive, still hailing Caesar.