The Groundhog

Scooped from his winter nest
by the icy fingers of the creek
(rampaging in a February thaw),
before his sleep ended, the groundhog
trundles across a field to our back door.
He does not beg, nor plead, nor— so far as
I know—pray, but waits expectantly
like a converted sinner for judgment.
Above him, from an open window,
I drop manna (kernels of corn) which
he collects and sits up like a teddy bear
to eat, then with no bow to providence
trundles off again.
He comes the next day and the next
accepting the crumbs of my benevolence
with never an upward look for the hand
that feeds him—he makes me wonder
if such a calamity would wake us
to accept unknown help on faith
without looking to heaven to see
if we are protected.