Winter Children

The groundhog is about she’s fattening up on hedgerow shadows. Winter babies are carried in small wombs over stark ground, they have eyes and mouths by now, almost human paws. The snuffle of small rodents awakens more as yet unborn. My own inner child opens its eyes, calls out once. From all directions, brown in-uterine orbs glance my way. Dawn, like a stripper, takes off her long black gloves, arrives in white thighs, remembers that she too is a working mother.