The Feast

A fat brown mouse burrows out of

his winter home in the snow bank,

an igloo’d den up against the foundation

of our home, his and mine. He sits outside

my window in the sunshine, contented and warmed;

and safe from my dogs barking above him,

shut fast behind the patio door, glassed in,

he feasts, now, unfazed, on the seed and suet

dropped by the birds dining at my feeder;

the squirrels are kept away by the dogs’ noise,

and the table set thus is his alone,

a celebratory feast on a winter’s day.