I am not threatened by

young hawthorns;

I will take their gentle stab wounds

or walk around.

It is the very force of life

that seeks to pierce my skin,

the first shrub in this clearing,

leading taller trees in.

Coyote tunnels under fences

do not make me feel defensive.

Not farmers only,

we are stewards of this land

where once the creatures flourished.

I have a field that beavers flood.

And so I go and break their dams,

undo their architecture,

well researched mudded spans

that created wetland farther

where I thought to field the land.

I return to open,

they return to heal the deed.

This battle there are some days

I would willingly concede.

While yet this steward lives

there will be hawthorns and coyotes.

(The beavers are negotiating

against bills I have to pay.)

There may yet be concession
 and wet lands where now lies hay.