Armadillo

Windshield wipers pulse,
timing traffic lights, blinking

at the armadillo in the parking lot,
far corner from Loblaw’s

huddled at the intersection, sheltered
by a lean-to of fir trees netted in green plastic

minus 27, minus 40 with the wind, the camper
rocks with each gust of eastbound traffic

(yesterday the fur of his hood frosted with breath,
I lugged the tree home and righted it, let it thaw.)

7:42 on the car dash, rushing
to school to daycare to work. he sleeps,

I imagine, under layers of wool blankets, a rustic pot-bellied
stove burning the raw sawed-off stumps of trees he’s sold,

needs to keep selling, to stay warm
through the night, keeps an ear cocked

for an approaching engine, the quick crisp footsteps
of thieves stealing trees from the lot, or he’s out

another 25 or 40, another stump of fuel, an hour’s
warmth. what furred burrowing in, what layers

of animal pelts, what woodland creature does he become
concealed in that metal-armoured shell?