MICE

Each morning, I go to inspect the little boxes on the hillside, on the table next to the seedling forests. I hear the scrabble and scratch of the mice living their mousy little lives, so I haul them off and set them free in the wilderness near the campground. I hear the kestrel sometimes swoops just as they are let free, but I have never guided them into danger. According to their respective personalities, they launch energetically from the spring loaded contraption, never once looking back, or they meekly protrude a pointed snout and then make a dash for it, or they peer up to inspect my countenance before weaving around between my boots on their way to the taller grasses. The last class, I imagine, is affectionate, and perhaps even grateful for the exotic banquet of irish oats.