Meadow Vole, Field Mouse, or Meadow Mouse (Microtus pennsylvanicus)
“…he led them up the mountain’s brow,
And shews them all the shining fields below.
They wind the hill, and thro’ the blissful meadows go.”
— Virgil, Aeneid (6.641)[16]
Dear meadow vole disappearing into the woods
in the jaws of a cat who holds her head high
and does not slink, perhaps it is unwarranted
to think of assigning you the role of gladiator
borne away in death, departing through fronds
of grass toward Elysium. But couldn’t I
imagine you an unwilling foot soldier conscripted
daily into war? Casualty fallen anew to the enemy
(as always, as in tragedy, classically mismatched:
bigger, meaner, more cosmically predatory than you),
yes it’s merely nature, neutral as red fox or mink
or short-eared owls that hunt above tufted nest or
burrow. In winter, for short-lived sustenance,
you find, hidden under snow, green parts of plants.
Our lives: mere wingspan of months in the wild;
easy sport, soft, twitching target for the gods.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Wonderful final line, Luisa!
Thanks, Larry!
Yes, that last line is a killer. Love the poem.
Now that’s heroic simile!
Also like “wingspan of months in the wild.”
Hi Marly, I’m so swamped right now, I can barely even feel heroic! Hope you have times of respite in your own days! xo
Luisa, what about that dear word, “sabbatical”?
That dear word is a dim memory. My last one was in 2007. Which means I can only get to my next one in 2014. Oy.
Dilemma: don’t want to wish our lives away. But 2014… sounds good!