Mouse Time

My year is not your year.

I know no clocks, alarms, appointments;

I do not measure time,

imposing order so that I might live forever.

I was born and I shall die as prey,

skulking in shadows, quivering in ditches.

I am less tense on summer days,

feasting on fare carelessly dumped.

I eat to live. No scheduled meals for me;

mouse time is marked in hungry rumblings,

the need to populate the time to come.

An hour is just an hour; a second all it takes to die.

Darkness brings the greatest fear,

when fangs and talons crunch and slash warm flesh

splashing the unfeeling night with blood.

The fragile morning light brings half a promise

that there is still some living to be done,

but nothing in this world is certain.

My year is not your year.

If I should live so long,

its end will find me old, stiff-legged and thin,

trembling under frost-edged leaves.

A stealthy feline tread inches from my pulsing frame

could mark the end of this small life.

But never think your clocks will keep you safe.

You live a lie. The predator is at your gate.