Fall is my favorite season of the year. The constellation Orion has traveled from my front door to the back. The air seems cleaner; the sun's rays cool from summer's white heat to a cozy gold. Days are pleasant, even cool, and nights are crisp, prompting me to climb under a mountain of covers.
|It may not be elegant, |
but it works.
I'm not the only one seeking warmth. Predictably, the field mice have found their way inside and so begins the annual siege. The Resident Dragon, also known as the Great Mouse Hunter, has unpacked his traps. He is scouting each room, most especially the kitchen, to find the ideal locations for his weapons of destruction.
Lining them up on the counter, he pulls out his (formerly) top secret bait: rancid peanut butter. He smears a dab on each trigger and cocks the devices. Carefully, carefully he slides each into its place. All that remains is to stumble off to sleep so nature can take its course.
|The Secret Bait|
About three a.m. we are awakened by the snap of the trap, actually traps--two. Two varmints have been dispatched to their eternal reward. Bleary-eyed but chortling triumphantly, he reloads the traps and we return to our slumber. So goes the opening salvo in what will be a protracted battle.
I find it vexing, but amusing. I certainly am annoyed by the annual invasion, but must confess that we chose to build our home in a hayfield. (The first spring I mowed the yard, field mice ran from the mower in droves.) It serves a reminder of my place in the world: I'm just a small component in a much bigger system. And, somehow, that comforts me.
It reminds me I have a place, a home here in the field, with the mice . . . and the Great Mouse Hunter.
How are you living your savory life?