By Bevis Longstreth
There he was, stretched out on the doormat,
So tiny one might miss him in stepping out into the cold,
So gray he matched the natural tones of house and deck,
So much calm across his whiskered face
That one could be forgiven for thinking him asleep.
What could have attracted him out into the cold?
Since a multitude of mice enjoy the warmth of our home,
Surely this young thing was born inside and never ventured far before.
Something compelled him to go outdoors. Adventure, perhaps, or curiosity.
Hearing the wind, seeing the snow, looking up at the stars.
Could he have sought a way to access the mysterious? The unknown?
And finding himself outside, might he have reveled in discovery before succumbing,
His mind filled with joy?
Far better to imagine his last moments thus,
Than to conjure with the many alternatives I would generate, in a less poetic frame of mind.