The Little Mouse

There was a mouse.

She was lonely.

She had a little house, a coincidental hole at the base of a big, old oak tree. She bustled around her hole, moving an acorn here, a grass seed there, keeping it ship-shape. (Although she’d never seen a ship).

The mouse stood in her doorway and looked. Every morning, every evening, watching the world go by.

She saw:

Beetles crawling over the dusty soil, through blades of grass.
Spiders scampering long-legged.
Birds flying high in the sky, soaring.
Ants marching forwards.
Bees buzzing from flower to flower.
Butterflies flapping haphazardly.
Half-heartedly hopping toads.

Life. She saw life. An ever-changing ebb and flow of creatures and insects and birds. All busy, all going about their business.

And the little mouse watched, wide-eyed.

“Such purpose!” she thought. “See how they go!”

And then she turned, and tweaked a grass-seed, placing it just so.

At night the little mouse dreamed wonderful dreams! She flew and soared and scampered and hopped and marched and crawled and flapped and buzzed! She did it all!

In the morning her eyes slowly opened, and blinked once, twice. Her safe little house. The dreams fading.

She got up, stretched, and quickly polished an acorn before opening her door to watch the world go by.

She was a twat, that mouse.