Roaring Like a Mouse
On a clear summer day, my family and I walked an abandoned railroad track through the countryside. Sulfur yellow butterflies flickered over the tall weeds. Red-winged blackbird sentinels called out to one another as we passed from one bird’s territory to the next.
Panting, her liver-colored tongue hanging low, our old dog simply tried to keep up. But the children explored everywhere, collecting lavish bouquets of wildflowers, and picking up rocks and rusty artifacts left behind by the iron horse that once rumbled through the farmlands.
Joel, my 11-year-old, stooped to pick up an old plank but was stopped by a frightened squeak. Beneath the board was a mouse nest. Mama mouse was lying on her side nursing several babies.
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