We heard thunder. Nothing great – on high

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Mouse Night: One of our games

William Stafford

We heard thunder. Nothing great – on high

ground rain began. Who ran through

that rain? I shrank, a fieldmouse, when

the thunder came – under grass with bombs

of water scything stems. My tremendous

father cowered: “Lions rushing make

that sound,” he said: “we'll be brain-washed

for sure if head-size chunks of water hit us.

Duck and cover! It takes a man

to be a mouse this night,” he said. 

No poema, a palavra que sugere perigo é: