Dead Mice

The last step in suiting up for an evening around the house, I check the mouse traps. I feed the dead mice to the crows that frequent the dead poplar NW of the outhouse. It's an arrangement. Mice. If they were neat, like pigs, they'd shit in the same place, and I wouldn't have to kill them, we could come up with a compromise. But they're simple, not to say stupid, and they shit all the time, on everything, and you have to trap them. Fucking dead mouse in my slipper is wit's end. How improbable that you'd have to deal with that? I was actually fast enough, still, to not come down completely with the weight of my body (each step, when you think about it, is a point load) because I sensed something was wrong. My callous heel felt something. Not unique, I'm sure, but really, how many people slip on their slippers and realize, in the instant, that if they put their weight on the heel of their left foot, they would squash a small dead rodent? Just asking. This shit happens to me and I don't know how to respond. First, I think, my train of thought, is isolate your feelings, what do you really (Glenn, please, cut me some slack) think you're saying. Dead mice. Consider the lilies of the field.

Tom

"Once I was a weaver."