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Mouse Night: One of our games
William Stafford
We heard thunder. Nothing great – on high
ground rain began. Who ran through
that rain? I shrank, a fieldmouse, when
the thunder came – under grass with bombs
of water scything stems. My tremendous
father cowered: “Lions rushing make
that sound,” he said: “we'll be brain-washed
for sure if head-size chunks of water hit us.
Duck and cover! It takes a man
to be a mouse this night,” he said.
No poema, a palavra que sugere perigo é: