by Deborah BrownLike that mouse who clung to the cabin wall by its pale, delicate nails, its shapely knuckles curved tight, and then its tail flicking side to side like a tongue over its plump thumb of a body, as if joining the argument, clawing its way up, swaying until, in the morning, the soft collapsed body of the mouse, stuck half in, half out of the wall, as though he'd heard beckoning noises from the field, as though he'd tried to drive straight through and batter his small way there.
