 We wanted a pond to look like a pond, standing poplars, shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders. The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong, or may. God of varmints, God of will, forgive us our trespasses. We know precisely what we do. This poem explores John's ambivalence about hunting a beaver. And as a deer hunter, John says he doesn't like the killing or the violence, but he thinks it's worth it on the whole.