"The Arctic Vortex"

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The war on mice began when the Arctic air came
down from Canada
under the gap, under the door
into the basement
through the hole in the window.

The pipes froze.
The mud froze.
The ground froze.
The hot-water broke.
The dishwasher leaked.

The mice headed for the only warm place they knew:
under the woodstove.

The young, the old, they came
when the arctic air came
and made a new home,
under the woodstove
where it was warm and food was close.

They started to die.
The young, the old
eight, nine in a day.

On the counter, in the bathroom,
behind the washing machine,
twelve, fifteen in a day.

The dogs caught a mouse.
The dogs caught mice and took them to their kennels
so they could play later,
so they could smell later.

The house was cold.
The house smelled like death.
The faucets dripped all day.

The dogs snored and panted and licked by the woodstove,
the only warm place they knew,
above the new home
of what was left of family mouse
who moved when the arctic air came
down from Canada
under the gap under the door
into the basement
through the broken window.