A few moments after I entered the room this morning,
I heard the soft rustling that denotes the resident mouse,
hurrying to find a mostly-concealed path under counters
and tables to wherever it hides when people are there.
But the noise sounds different, more defined and plastic.
When I look into the five gallon white plastic bucket,
the mouse looks up at me-- frozen, frightened, fluffy--
in a container only filled with its own droppings.
I slowly begin to tilt the bucket, letting the mouse adjust
to the change in its center of gravity before I let go.
I don't look back as I walk away and start my routine
until the familiar scratch of small claws under the table
makes me realize I could've taken the bucket outside.