Mr. Muskrat
Mr. Muscrat moves across the mud.
His tail leaves a trail that leaves no doubt
of who’s been wadding there.
With his dark brown or greyish hair.
Munching on cattail roots, weeds and grass
he might make a pile so his supply lasts.
In a marsh, he builds a hut.
In streams, he digs holes.
He makes more than one;
it gives him places to go.
It doesn’t matter how he feels.
If he hangs around he becomes a meal.
It might be a fox, or maybe a mink,
an otter, an owl, why aren’t muskrats extinct?!
Babies, lots of babies -
three or four litters a year
Babies, muskrat babies.
The reason for survival is clear.
But when the population gets high
the mood gets low.
They get mean and nasty
don’t let the little ones grow.
It’s brutal population control.
Even disease will take its toll.
Only so many muskrats
in one place can live.
There’s only so much food
a watery spot can give.
In winter, life’s tough.
In spring, they love and fight.
In summer, they take it easy.
In fall, they make their homes tight.
Swimming through the struggle and strife,
each day living that muskrat life.