It is early December and between the hawk and roadrunner circling the back yard, this year’s mice population has moved further down the street. There is a pot of water simmering and steaming on the stove, leaving droplets on the glass door panes. The grocery list is simple and everything fits in a small backpack; potatoes, capers, bacon. Muskrat adjusts his wools socks, tightens his belt and dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s , pushes the Wednesday crossword, two thirds complete, aside. There are Christmas cards waiting to be sent sitting on the writing desk in Muskrat’s new bedroom, and Tom Waits is singing Silent Night. They are predicting a blood red moon and full lunar eclipse early in the morning with the moonset on the west coast, seven thirty in the morning over New Mexico where Muskrat decided to buy blood oranges to celebrate the occasion and sleep in until eight thirty.
