|Morning light and dew|
|Stealing Away to the Woods, Too|
...pets, birds as well as dogs, and even white mice for a number of years until the short life span of the mouse began to wear on him.
...a mouse appeared on the red wool and sat up to stroke its whispers, not briskly as a mouse normally does but feebly and dreamily. She felt a rush of pity for it. But was it more than pity? Was it love? The feeling swelled past the mouse – past the fir on its chest made pink by the sun on the rug, the flimsy hands curved, even without a thumb, in the ballet position arrondi, as she knew from forced months at the barre – and on, to things a mouse must know, must live for, passageways, smells, and its own kind, and from there to things unknown to it because it had to be a mouse, a world of things going on somewhere, everywhere with nothing to rule them.
|Corner of snow fence|