by Bruce McRae
Which is no great thing,
coming in from the frost-bitten fields,
meeting its mousey maker,
eternity’s agent the simple housecat,
a fat and playful angel of death.
The mouse, its life poured out
on a mat by a door,
the watch of its heart stopped,
the wheel in its head no longer turning.
As must we all lie down,
a little dirt-nap for the fallen just,
an old wind aching in the yellowing glade,
fields of gold calling us home,
the grains of harvest piled high.