This golden stuke of wheat
of Lamas bread conceals
whiskered and button eyed
field mice snuggled between
baked bread stems
peering out expectantly.

When the ears of corn are dried,
and empty earth baked and cracked
will mice then forage the vast fields
of space, sailing across the great threshing
floor of the heavens chasing down infrared
rays, sniffing out our history?

When bread is dust along with all
the power and the glory, our human story.
Tails of their reproach will stir dead dust
notating our folly our lack of care and attention
and heaven help mice if they fail to mention
their store of wisdom was far greater.