I do not especially like having to remove their little bodies from the trap. Nor do I like anymore tossing the soft-furred carcasses into the shriveled patch of pachysandra where I imagine over time their tiniest bones disappear in the dirt and become that. But I hadn’t really any other choice than this: a mouse had built itself a small place to live behind the white front plastic cover of my clothes washer and, from urine, shorted out the fragile circuit board. Repairing this cost me nearly three hundred seventy-five dollars and for one week I washed my undergarments by hand in the bathroom sink in warm water. Plus it meant having a strange man, who was nearly mute, in my own house with his shoes on; and I nearly never have anybody over, speaking to me or not. It is an awful business having to put a dab of almond butter back on the copper or brass lever that, when the spring is sprung, becomes the spot against which their innocent skulls are crushed, again. I really can’t stand it. For the rest of the day I can’t use my hands for anything. Once off the frozen coast of Denmark I had seen the white and snowy ocean there within which were several hundred swans swimming in a patch of water right off the shoreline. They paddled about without, it seemed, any effort at all. There was nowhere else for them to go. I could see that for white swans there was nothing else for them to do, too, but do that. Whiter than the ocean itself I watched them swimming away, it looked like, into infinity.