Words from Pep Grave Robber

Words from Pep

Grave Robber

She bounced across the matted grass, cocked her head to study the earth beneath her and picked a morsel to her liking. Several dozen others were scattered over the terrain. Spring was back. The robins had returned. This grey and faded-tangerine flock swarmed over the field gleaning anything containing energy. Between each snowdrift and rivers of runoff they were filling their craw. The warm south wind bathed my face and I smiled at this wild buffet. A number of excited feathered ones were following an especially violent stream of cold water. Hopping, squawking, cackling, hurdling one another as they followed the flood downhill in my general direction. I moved toward to the chaos. There in the middle of the rushing surge was a vole, stubby legs thrashing the icy water trying to keep its tiny pink snorkel in the air. The riot drew closer and the concerned mob halted, questioning the motives of this human. As he washed by, my heart went out to the little fellow struggling for his life. In only a few seconds he would be gone, caught in the whirlpool of water above the culvert draining this field. When we think of spring we think of resurrection and life. It is the season of new fawns, awakening of insects under the bark, eggs in the nest, and the empty tomb. But, for this wee comrade his journey was nearing its end. My smile disappeared, replaced by compassion and pity. Assisted by gravity I sprang downhill over the thawing earth. I grabbed for him and missed as he descended into the churning grave, his small black eyes looking toward heaven. I stood bent over and knew I wouldn’t forget this passing moment of such a fragile life. His pleading eyes fixed in my memory. Then it happened. Up from the whirling maelstrom of River Styx he shot. His tomb could not hold him. I had another chance. He had another chance. Hoping not to miss I spread my hand wide and drove it upon his body. I had him, my heart and his filled with light. Dropping him onto a nearby drift he laid on his back gasping, cold and shivering, eyes now closed tight. In a few seconds he stared upward, flipped over and with miniature hands desperately began squeezing icy water from his coat. Upstream, the flock voiced their joy having been witness to his resurrection. . . . . . Such is the teaching of life in spring, the season of the greatest miracle. 
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