Catching the Moles

First we tamp down the ridges that criss-cross the yard then wait for the ground to move again. I hold the shoe box, you, the trowel. When I give you the signal you dig in behind and flip forward. Out he pops into daylight, blind velvet. We nudge him into the box, carry him down the hill. Four times we’ve done it. The children worry. Have we let them all go at the very same spot? Will they find each other? We can’t be sure ourselves, only just beginning to learn the fragile rules of uprooting.