Jason M. Vaughn
Where a round bale stood,
just moments ago,
there is now a patch of curled sightless grass
and four mice, the size of a boy’s fingertips
(all pink skin and shivering),
shivering
in the shadow of a boy
wondering what he can do
as the harsh fast-popping popping of his father’s tractor—
like the muttering of an angry god—
trails over the hill after the sun.
Jason M. Vaughn lives and writes in Basehor, KS.