the morning’s only cloud
rises from the paper mill
beside the bypass
with its thump-thump of tires
going elsewhere at seventy
miles per hour
as death comes
to a white-footed mouse
struggling in a trap
spring dulled by rust
the wide-screen tv
still in sleep mode
below the old skull mount
twelve antler points scored
by rodent teeth
a hat-rack now
zebra stripes of road salt
out on his black truck
and a cracked rib that aches
when they hug
only to pull apart
gazing up wordless
as silver syllables tumble down
from tundra swans
it was just then
she’ll tell you years later
craning my neck I felt
your first kick
