Beaver on a nearby stream were responsible for Monday’s power outage. The popple it was harvesting (about 6 in. in diameter according to the paper), toppled onto a high-voltage line. Service was affected in an area of one hundred square miles. The encroachment, back upon us, of this huge furred rodent is heartening.
I have wandered through that beaver workshop as they lay hidden, submerged. Have scrutinized their little pointed stumps, but never saw a stump that size. These beavers are hemmed in by highway five hundred feet along one side, railroad line on the other. At one end is the village, with wood-turning mill. Yet there are the beavers. They work at night, because human presence changes the way to go about it. Like most Mainers they are cozy in winter, provided for by their own industry. Mighty-toothed, strong-tailed, tiny of ear and tiny-eyed. Beasty builders.
Stay with us, beavers. Slap your tails in warning and keep your beasty signals coming. This is my answering, my own peculiar signaling of loneliness and longing. Knock out our electricity. Turn off the lights, shut down the pump, thaw our food, cool the furnace. Remind me of my smallness; if you will. But stay with us. For there are rogues of fear in life; but your disturbing presence has contributed to the recovery of all things.
© by S. Dorman. Maine Metaphor: The Green and Blue House. Used with permission of Wipf & Stock Publishers