Terra Incognita | Matthew Hummer

A dark shadow on the muddy shore.  
A head pops up. The water’s 
surface quilted with moonlight. The muskrat 
is low to the ground and nibbling grass.  
A splash to the left, then a splash near the hutch.  

Across the neighborhood, the honking 
of our dog on his chain cuts the evening.
He knows I’m outside and wants to be free 
to roam or let back in the house to lick 
crumbs from the floor. Animalism sparked 
by human proximity.  
 
                       Black bodies—
move near the water so subtle it might 
be a trick of light and eyes accustomed 
to artificial light. The stars and moon 
blur pupils adapted to flourescent 
and incandescent bulbs of work and home.  
The dull throbbing glow of the new 
Christmas lights interrupts the transition 
from light to dark. The hole in the eye 
cannot find the focus it needs 
to see rodents by the marsh at night.  

Where the grass blends into water 
the snow is gone. Thaw has robbed 
contrast. Against the shine of rippling 
water, the black rodent blends.  
Under the arrow that flows from his swim 
and shows his direction: toward the hutch.  
The arrow grows into a triangle 
that terminates in the submerged grass.   

                    The muskrat 
house looks like a Van Gogh 
haystack; a loose pile of reed, 
but solid. A splash and plunk again 
left in the cover of cattails. The wind 
vibrates the water, rattles the cattails, 
and jingles chimes on a distant porch—
a lonely sound. If not for the plunks 
and splashes my eyes would be liars. The shape 
that sat at the shore before swimming 
was black like the mist on the cooling land.  
The animal absence rather than presence. 

He lives in holes and steals a home 
from the places man lets him live.  
The lowest order of mammal. Field 
mouse feeds the hawk and snake; 
house mouse tears the plastic 
on the bright green block of poison—
a glutton for his own death. His offspring 
eat his poisoned bowels.

                 A plane overhead; 
a dead tree, cragged and crooked 
beyond the marsh and creek; a nickel-
sized splash extends across 
the wind-chopped surface; the marshy 
ground pops and hisses with thaw—
bubbles unfrozen escape through peat—
the water chirps as terra firma
turns to mush.             

Matthew Hummer lives in Pennsylvania, USA. He has been published in a variety of literary magazines, such as Zymbol and Still Points Arts Quarterly.