on moving in

As the temperature outside drops, the mice move in. I hear them in the walls, clawing and scratching their way into their winter quarters, sprinting and slinking from one place to the next, going about their business without fear of trap or cat or poison. So familiar are they with the rhythms of this house that they boldly help themselves to my left-overs: recently, I found a baby mouse trying frantically to escape the filthy depths of my recycling bucket; I released the greasy mouseling on the deck behind the house, where he sat in the warm sun staring blankly up at me as if to say, 'Yeah, see you back inside in, like, a few hours.' One of the reasons I am loathe to replace the house's exterior covering is because I wish to avoid disturbing the leagues of tunnels my rodent roommates have burrowed into its dry-rotting timbers. Besides nesting in old pairs of lederhosen and making creepy noises as they invade the walls, the mice do me little harm; if anything, I welcome their presence and see it as a sure sign that Fall is near. Come one, come all, you little creatures, have herein a welcome stay, I'll clean up your furry corpses, chase you neither night or day.

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