The Time Of Mice

Through the window, I see Clarence first. Climbing up a hibiscus stem, reaching towards the suet feeder, the fingers on his tiny paws stretch and reach. He grabs the feeder and swings over, suddenly inside of it. I blink, and blink again. How did he make it so seamlessly through those tiny little holes? No hiccup, no hesitation, no squirming through. One second, he was outside, just holding onto the wire, and the next, he was settled inside on top of the suet.

The feeder swings and Clarence nibbles, dropping crumbs of fat and seed onto the ground. I peer through the window, looking for Francine below. A movement in the big container catches my eye: she has found her own goodies. Francine balances between stalks in the strange, corn-like plant that volunteered in the container – I have no idea what it is. Francine may not know either and, apparently, she does not care. She nibbles and gnaws at the fruit of this one tall blossom and seems to purposely drop crumbs beneath her. Perhaps the balancing act is too difficult to maintain while dining; she is no Flying Wallenda. She scurries down the stalks and disappears into the foliage, then reappears again. She sits and eats her harvest, turning the seeds over in her paws as she takes tiny, delicate bites.

Francine has beautiful table manners.

The wire feeder barely swings now, but Clarence is still making his way through the suet. It’s the perfect combination of fat and protein, sugar and carbs, to get him through the winter. His nose wiggles, his black eyes shine like beads. Suddenly, without warning, he drops through the wire and onto the ground. He darts through the drying stems and leaves to a clump of coneflower; his tummy is full. Francine, suddenly alarmed by his quick exit, does her own dine-and-dash, into the mulch of the container.

There is a bird sitting on the fence, unfamiliar. It is a small visitor, with a grey head and a soft yellow breast. I cannot identify it and that is aggravating me. For a moment I think it is a goldfinch, now finished with bright summer colors, faded into his winter coat. But I am not so sure. Male goldfinch in winter tend to look like females, but with just a hint of bright yellow at their throat. This throat is too white, the head is too grey, the yellow is too pale and the beak is just not the correct shape.

I think.

Later, I peek under the coneflowers but see no mouse doorway, no telltale opening in the soil. In the container, it is a different story. There is a hole in the mulch, dropping down into the loam and then quickly sloping sideways. I see no pink nose, no bright eyes, no whisper of a tail. I wonder where this hole leads, deep into the container. This pot has several holes drilled along the sides, just at ground level. Perhaps Francine and Clarence started the excavation there, noticing how perfectly their little bodies fit into those holes. They worked their way to the top, building dens along the tunnel, perhaps outfitting them with tiny pool tables or knock hockey. Now, it’s a perfect home, just inches from a “grocery store” of drying seeds and suet.

Francine is all about convenience. And Clarence thinks he is Minnesota Fats.

It is now the time of mice in the garden. I have not seen one whisker all summer, not one curl of a tail, not one petal-like ear. Now, in the past few weeks, we’ve suddenly seen them every day; dancing in the hydrangeas, racing through the coneflowers and eating, eating, eating as many seeds as possible.

I’m feeling like Holden Caulfield in reverse. Instead of wondering where they go in the winter, not knowing where they live during the spring and summer is driving me crazy.

Clarence Into The Feeder

Francine doing her grocery shopping

Flying Wallenda – or not?

Clarence still stuffing his cheeks

What IS this bird??

The Entrance To The Mouse Condo