Invasive

The spade caught on something that didn't sound like stone.

A dull thud, a vibration that traveled

up the wooden handle and into my wrist.

I’ve been trying to keep the water from pooling,

resetting the bricks I laid back when I thought

things stayed where they were put.

I cleared the dirt and found the cable,

thick and gray, a muscle of the oak

forcing its way under the threshold.

The edge of the shovel bit the bark,

leaving a wet, white grin in the wood.

It doesn't care about the mortar or my plans.

It’s just looking for a drink.