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May 142012
 

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.