Field Mouse

By Hilda Conkling

Little brown field mouse
Hiding when the plough goes by,
Timid creature that you are,
Wild thing,
Were you once in the forest?
Did you move to the fields?
In your brown cloak
You gather grain
For your secret meals:
You will build a house of earth
The way you remember:
From a baby up to your fullgrown feeling
You have run about the field
As other field-mice will run about
When another century has come
Like a cloud. . . .