Field Mice

A sorrowing wolf wandered into a grove

filled with the busy of strange field mice.

Carefully, he stepped, each paw with delicate gate.

His eyes were low, his heart ached.

For at last the time had come.

No one spoke, only left;

to here, to there, to places better left unsaid.

There were a few,

who, when spoken to,

would sway and twirl, just to be rid of the world.

And some would cry and some would binge.

Some would cringe and others could laugh.

But few were devout to their selves—

‘Silly’ ones, with notions of the utmost absurd.

There was work, much toil, don’t forget that,

and even more talk, which was equally kept.

The wolf considered in himself,

‘How frivolous and full of chaff

these tiny mice put every task.

If only they could see the danger

and the awe

of a coming frost.

or a tromping predator.’

Shaking his head, the wolf cried,

and thought on a few last ones

of which he had grown to love,

to which such adoration brought turmoil and strife

to their quick, little lives.

A silent mourning for them he took.

Careful to write them in his book.

Before the Old Gray took his fill,

He thought,

‘It’s a shame I cannot now sit and watch them drill.’