The mole has moved to another burrow, not far from his old one, but far enough. The new one is in a quieter area with less rumbling traffic and rulier gardens. His needs aren’t great. He’s content with quiet confines, enough to eat, maybe some other moles to sniff at now and then. With snout, whiskers and claws he’s carving out a new space for himself in the world, a new underworld for himself. The peacefulness as he busies himself with fresh tunnels, nooks and scents is intensely pleasurable. Time is a luxury when it allows him to stretch out and snooze in return for being used constructively. He thinks he must be happy.
*
The mole is getting used to his new burrow. He still bumps into walls of tunnels he didn’t know he’d made, forgets where he left things. He hears odd noises and sometimes thinks he sees another small animal flit through one of his tunnels. It’s still a little alien and ill-fitting, this burrow. But soon he’ll assemble routines, develop habitual movements. He’ll know it like the back of his paw: it’ll become an extension of his self.
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