Beavers construct their refuges overnight. Their dens are islands with hidden underwater entrances. They choose a new watery home and set to work and, in the morning, that creek or rill is stayed by their blockades of twigs and bark and moss and mud.
They are adaptable. And, in return, the river adapts with them. They make wetlands. They build ecosystems. They defend and lose and build again, but once they find a dam destroyed, their hearts depart. They know that what is lost may never be replaced. They move to other rills and creeks and change new currents, make new homes.
Is that what I have done here? In this little bungalow, on this side street, in this slice of unfamiliar state, and with this little life?
Even in the February freeze, some foliage survives: the evergreens, the patch of lawn. Winter persists, but still the soil thaws to…
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