A hawk's shadow drove the family
of field mice from the field to the street,
pioneering up the black rubber of a tire,
across the steering bar, fitting themselves
between alternator and distributor.
They slipped through greasy darkness
until they found insulation to scratch out,
to swaddle in.  Busy wires of tails
began sparking inside the electrical system,
gray lumps mounding along hoses.

I never noticed any dodgings, felt
furtive stares, or teeth along my wrist
when I reached to check the oil.
The family one moment sleeping,
furry sides pulsing, and suddenly their home
erupts, squeaks lost in a roar, stragglers
scrambling back to the quaking nest,
noses lifting at a gust of gasoline, and oily drops
of eyes gleaming over to each other as all
settles to a bearable idle, a warmth
like a new fur, whiskers trembling
in time.  They must have scurried
over moving landscapes, slept
under the thunder of rain.

We build where we can, flee different
shadows, live two lives in the same span.
We exist in the spin of an engine,
cozying up to the belief another built
this container of contained explosion,
another maintains this system of flashes
in the darkness, reclining in the knowledge
enough fuel shines to carry us past caring,
and our star will be visible long after death.
We constantly gnaw what we don't know,
pink babies with bulging eyes,
until the grimy hands come down.