An Easy Winter

and a Hard Spring

March 13 2019

In a cruel March

under grey skies

cold rain saturates the snow.

I contemplate the long drudgery

of the coming thaw,

and can only imagine

firm footing, in place of mud,

green grass

and languorous sun.

When I recall that sudden blizzard

that interrupted fall

as I'd just begun to rake.

And how that heavy quilt of leaves

must have made a thick insulating layer

for the mice to over-winter,

a fine refuge

of subdued light and airy warmth

beneath those feet of snow.

Mice, in their cozy cushioned lairs

letting down their guard.

Mice, darting along the network of trails

which spring always uncovers,

dead brown grass

worn down

into tiny tufted furrows.

The way a mouse pauses,

sprinting nimbly, then stopping to sniff.

How its body quivers

as its heart races,

listening

for ever-present threats.

Fattening pups and fussy mothers

frail matriarchs and countless cousins

nibbling, excreting

mounting their mates.

How many generations

since that first sudden snow,

heedless of cats and birds and clever traps

in the leaf-litter, and dormant grass

out of sight and mind?

It's been a brutal winter,

but because I let the raking go

they have found a pleasant home.

Yet now

in the season of renewal and rebirth

they will find themselves exposed,

cold and wet and easy prey;

an exodus of frantic mice

as the snow melts

and frost penetrates the ground.

Armageddon, if mice had religion.

The law of zero sums

if they were inclined to philosophy.

But I see the cycle of life

and nature's harsh calculus.

That an easy winter

can be followed by a hard spring.

That the leaves might be left

but they still need raking,

heavy with wet

and cold as ice.

And whatever remains of home,

along with the sodden bodies

of dead mice

so small I hardly notice.