Groundhog

Groundhog

he clearing is sun-dappled, almost too perfect. You crunch through last season’s leaves and spot a medallion half-buried beside a weathered log. You brush away the moss and press your fingers to the bronze.

Something shifts.

The grass hushes. A low snort rumbles from below.

Then—a burst of soil. Dirt flings into the air as a rather plump groundhog claws his way out of the earth like an angry garden genie.

He squints at you with suspicion, blinking slowly.

“Of course. Of all days. Why not today?”

He shakes soil from his fur and mutters something about cosmic timing and the cruelty of calendars.

“Could’ve been yesterday. Could’ve been tomorrow. But nooo—humans always find me today.”

He waddles out of the hole and sighs dramatically. Then, with great ceremony, he flicks a leaf off his shoulder.

“Well? Got your camera? Your shadow jokes? Let’s get this over with.”

You blink. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, you weren’t? What, you’re here for the weather? Or is this one of those medallion things? Because I’m not giving you a forecast. I’m retired.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“That depends. Will it cause another six weeks of anything?”

You hesitate. “Where do you think the medallions came from?”

He pauses.

A breeze stirs the leaves. The groundhog taps his paw against his chin.

“Cycles,” he says at last. “Everything’s cycles. Dig, sleep, wake. Hide, emerge, chew. The medallions? Just another ring on the tree. A season with strange weather. A blip in the pattern.”

He looks at you sideways.

“But maybe… maybe it’s a test. Or a reset. Or maybe the raccoon planted them all so he could play a prank involving synchronized marmots and a hot air balloon.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t.

“I’m not joking.”

“Oh.”

“You laugh now, but wait until you find the vole. That little furball knows things.”

He starts to turn back toward his hole, then pauses.

“Anyway. If you want answers, don’t ask the ones who’ve seen too many winters. Ask the ones still excited by spring.”

He vanishes with a sigh and a shuffle, burrowing back into his tunnel like he’s late for an appointment with inevitability.

You’re left in the clearing, wondering if he’ll pop back out to add something cryptic.

He does not.