The Mice

When the cooler weather arrives, so do they.
I find a trap that advertises Humane and Electronic,
prepare as directed, wear latex gloves
to block any human scent,
and place it along the basement wall.

Two days pass. I descend the steep
stairs of the bulkhead, pause,
let my eyes adjust to the half-light.

Just ahead of me, one baby mouse curled on its side –
maybe two weeks old-dead.
I crouch to get a closer look.

Two feet away, another – also dead.
Horrified, yet mesmerized –
I marvel at their perfection: tiny pink paws,

four toes on the front,
five on the back, small claws intact,
gray newborn fuzz,
fully formed ears. The long lean tail.

What have I done?

I reach for the trap, push the button to off,
ease it open, and find the third laid out on the metal plate,
eyes closed, his tiny snout and whiskers imbedded
in the pea-sized dab of peanut butter.

I grab a shovel from the shed, and in the warm October sun,
dig a hole in the woods behind my house,
empty the dustpan into the hole,
backfill the grave, cover with more dirt,
then mulch and leaves, bury them deep
in the earth so that no animal
will harm them again.