Nighttime.

And an 8:04 yawn, and a 28-degree whisker-twitch, with warmth wafting from the closed oven, and gourds (yellow, green, and orange) in the middle of the kitchen table (in lieu of once-displayed flowers). And a ladybug crawling, barely noticed, upside-down on the ceiling, looking for other ladybugs.

It was already dark, of course, outside, but the lights were on in here, a golden evening-land, this little, white farm-house in the Hoosier prairie. Where the full, milky moon perched on high, and where the indoor plants made merry in their pots, much better off, at the moment, than their outdoor brethren.

By November's coming, one's hopes (and dreams) had long been lined up. Like paper dolls along the walls. For all hopes and dreams needed to be leaning, balancing on something. None could ever stand on their own. And in daily checking, one found that, yes, some were still crisply-cut, still freshly from the scissors. Others had cobwebs on them. Had been knocked over by the ghostly daddy longlegs that made their homes in the corners of rooms. The year was well into its final quarter. And the tail-end was coming nigh, leaving one to think about ...

... what hopes and dreams had flourished?

What had been seen to flower?

And which dreams/hopes were yet fulfilled? And would they (indeed, could they) ever be?

Late-fall, with all its browns and burnt-oranges, and all its crispy, crinkled colors, was a time to be putting things away. In the basement. In the porch. Away from the burning scorch of cold fire.

Reflection.

Hibernation.

Endurance.

November was an ember. An ember. An early bride to December.

And it was an odd place to be. To be in November. Wasn't it?

There was Thanksgiving, of course, but that didn't mean all that much. Not unless you bent yourself into a pretzel thinking about it. It hadn't the soul that Christmas and Easter had. It hadn't the foundation of the Fourth, or the numeric style of New Year's. Or any of those things. It was, rightly, the most ordinary and undistinguished of all holidays, dedicated to nothing more than ‘thanking' and ‘gratitude.' (And, apparently, eating lots and lots of food.)

Food, though. The mouse, truth be told, had never found himself to be eating particularly more on that day than on any other given day. Did anybody really do that? Or was that just a cultural stereotype? That everyone got ‘stuffed' on Thanksgiving?

Rodents, of course, didn't eat meat. None of that turkey nonsense that predators sank their teeth into. None of that tryptophan. None of those drug-dressed amino acids. I'll take my amino acids in non-flesh, non-muscle forms, please. Thank you very much.

Vegetables. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash. Corn. Corn was always there. Corn, and cornbread. Lots of bread. And apples. Always apples, and maybe asparagus, and stuff like that. Nuts and seeds. Salted sunflower seeds. Roasted pecans with cinnamon and sugar on them.

And on and on.

And harvest-like stuff.

Things you would associate with harvest. With bounty. The bounty of the earth.

The food part was distinctive enough, then. True. But it never matched the ‘hype' piled upon it. Still, you couldn't do without it. Thanksgiving needed the food. (And the football!) But the ‘thanking' part ...

Why did one need a holiday to do those things? To thank? Be grateful? Shouldn't they be in the daily habits of any good, Christian soul?

The prayer before every meal.

The prayer before bed.

Thank you for my daily bread.

Thank you for my life, mortal and eternal.

I recognize, Lord, that all my blessings come from You. That all things come from You.

My Sustainer, Redeemer, Comforter, Friend. Savior. Alpha, Omega. Beginning and End.

Thank you.

Why was Thanksgiving so special?

Wasn't it every day?

Thankfulness and gratitude, like faith, should be inherent.

The mouse had read an article the other day, in one of those national magazines. The ones he normally tried to avoid (for their slant, and all their cynical, negative articles). But, at work, at the restaurant, he'd been bussing the tables. Someone had left a copy behind, and he'd opened it up. There had been an excerpt by one of those Democratic senators, one of the younger ones, one of the ones everyone liked. He'd probably be running for president. But he'd talked about his Christian faith.

It had caught Field's interest.

And, at the end of the excerpt, the senator wrote of how his young daughter had asked him about death. About what happens when we die. And the senator had skirted the answer, just saying not to worry about it. That it was a long way away. And saying, to himself, that maybe he should've told her the truth: that he didn't know.

And the mouse had blinked.

Hadn't understood.

It hadn't been the first time he'd seen this from someone, of course. That reaction. That pick-what-you-will kind of lollipop faith. Taking from God's Word, but ignoring the things that spoke, plainly, against common, misplaced desires. Things that didn't appeal to ‘modern rationality.'

If the Word was divinely inspired and divinely protected, then wasn't the sight of ‘professed' Christians disavowing it, claiming the parts they didn't like or couldn't prove to be ‘mere myths' ... was that not hypocrisy?

Was not their faith as dead as that withered fig tree?

So, why, then, did they even bother to have faith? If their faith was diluted to the point of having no flavor? A ‘safe, non-offensive' faith ... was no faith as all. Truly, if you were not stirring waves with your faith, not making others to think, to reflect ... if you were not making any sort of positive, vibrant impact with it (on family, friends, or your own self), then, perhaps, your faith was wilting.

Wake it up.

Take it off the mantle. Take it out of the trophy case.

Make it to be alive. Make it to BREATHE.

As He did, turn over tables.

How could creatures with so much education, with so much passion for things, creatures who claimed, publicly, to be Christians ... how could they call themselves as such? And yet silently intimate their own Savior to be a liar? Calling God (for the Son is in the Father, and the Father in the Son ... to refuse one is to refuse both) ... a liar?

That's how Field took it.

‘If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe if I tell you of heavenly things?

‘For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'

The promise of heaven.

Things not seen.

Eternal life.

Faith.

If you truly professed to have faith, how did you NOT know your ultimate fate? How did you not know what death led to? How did you not believe God's point-blank explanation?

Faith was, by definition, belief that required NO proof. No proof needed. Because something unseen was deep, deep down, and rooted in the knowing of the heart. A knowing of the soul.

(But, if you asked the mouse, he would say, readily, that there WAS proof, all the same ... in nature, in the wonderful details of existence. In emotions. His daughter's smile, and his wife's touch. In so many things.)

And the mouse felt sad that so many creatures, even those who claimed to have faith ... truly didn't know what it was. Truly didn't get it. And maybe never would. Maybe their intellects would always get in the way, or ... maybe this. Maybe that.

He didn't know why they felt that way.

He only knew that, when Akira was old enough to ask that question, to ask, ‘What happens when we die?'

Field would know the answer. Would teach her. Impart his own knowing, and would tell her, in full confidence, in full humility and innocence, of heaven. And safety. And Love beyond what could be described. And Light that touched everything.

And would there ever be doubt?

There were, sometimes, flashes of it. Pangs of fear. That was mortal, and that was natural. Little moments of doubt, and little moments of ‘what if' ... but a true armor of faith could not be dented by such rocks.

And would there be moments of misguided focus?

Could I, heaven forbid, end up straying again (as I once did)? And what if, next time, I'm too far gone to come back?

Oh, but could You be like the ticket-half I find inside the pocket of my old, leaf-raking coat? There all the time, all the while? But I so often seem to leave You in churches and other islands.

Am I the hundredth sheep, that left the common sense of the ninety-nine? The one you don't forget, despite me being one of many?

I admit that our self-importance grows so dazzling that we, often, don't see You. But Gentle Jesus, aren't you always, aren't you every hour here?

For I feel it to be so.

For I know it to be so.

For You have told me it is so.

For I have faith.

For that is faith.

And, oh, let my life be like a joyful noise that resounds!

Ring-a-ling-a-ling!

A joyful noise that ...

Ring-a-ding-a-ding!

... resounds?

Ring! Ring-a-ring-a ...

... blink?

Ring-a-ling-a-ling!

Whisker-twitch. Nose-sniff. "Oh!"

Ring-a ...

"Oh!" was the mouse's tiny, little squeak. Squeakity! Repeated several times, as he blinked himself out of his thoughts and back into the oven-baking, November warmth of the twilight kitchen. He quickly grabbed for an oven-glove, slipping it over his paw. While his tail went all around, all around. While he opened the oven door, sticking his gloved paw in. Into the shimmering, mirage-making heat. Grabbing, carefully, at the silver-colored, metal pan, and pulling it slowly, softly out, and setting it delicately onto the stove-top, and ...

... ring-a-ling-a-ling, continued the timer ...

... and the oven door still open, letting out the heat, which felt rather nice, actually, considering how chilly it was outside ...

... and the timer ringing ...

... and an overwhelmed squeaking! Too many sounds, and too much sensory input! And a mouse could only process so much! Live-wire! Live-wire!

Lost in thought too often.

And yanked back too quickly.

Enough to give him frequent whiplash.

Off with the oven-glove! And turn the oven off, also, and the timer off, too, and huff, and lean on the closed oven, and then move away, and ...

... padding to the bathroom, which was just off from the kitchen. Whiskers waggling as he went.

A minute passed.

And, finally, splashes of cold water to the muzzle. And slow, slow breaths. Slowing his excited heart-rate. Mouses got very excited, sometimes. So much stimuli. It made it hard to focus ...

But Field, re-emerging, his mousey excitement calmed, he ... quietly stopped. Stopped. And looked to the pan of butter-horn rolls (the golden, horn-looking rolls, so buttery and so tasty ... not at all like those blasted plums in those poetic ice-boxes). The rolls he'd just removed from the oven. The pan of rolls, yes, that was, now, cooling. A pan of twelve rolls.

Rolls!

There were no longer twelve!

"Hey!" he squeaked, with airy agitation, padding forward, thin, pink mouse-tail snaking, swerving behind him. And grey-blue eyes gone all wide (all cutely wide), and nose all in a sniff-twitching fit, with whiskers at a flicker-flick! He sniffed the air, and nose as good as it was, he knew what had happened.

One couldn't fool a mouse's nose. Not in the span of a mere minute!

Take a breath!

Take a breath, Field.

"Adelaide!" he called. Not in an angry way. Not at all. Simply, with a cook's frustration ... at having his morsels so quickly mooched on!

"Mm?" was the immediate, coming-from-the-other-room sound. A sound of cotton-candy, carnation pink. Everything about her, to Field, was colored in some hue of pink.

He loved pink. Swooned for pink.

He loved her. And, oh, swooned for her. Daily, nightly.

Swoon!

"There were TWELVE rolls," he said, as calmly as he could. But he was just as ‘excited' as before, and was finding it hard to be still. All these movements. Swivels, twitches, snakes. All of them. And he pointed a paw at the cooling pan. "Mm?" was his rodent sound, and he pointed more. "Mm?" He waited.

The bat, having padded into the kitchen, bare foot-paws on the yellow-like linoleum, looked. Scuffing the soles of her foot-paws a bit (in obvious guilt), saying, "They look very good." She turned to him. And smiled. Listening with her angular, swept-back ears, made for hearing the highest-pitched of sounds. Meant for receiving the bounce-backs of her very own echo-bursts. The echo-bursts that, unconsciously, she would let off in the bedroom (while doing ‘certain things'), where they would bounce off him and off the walls ... and back to her.

"Yeah, well ... there's only eleven now," the mouse continued. "Eleven!" He counted them again, just to make sure. Yes.

"Eleven? Rolls?" continued the pink-furred bat, all pretty and pretending. "Hmm." She gave some mock-thought.

"Don't give me that. You ate one! You ate one of my rolls." The mouse chittered, being stubborn. Kind of silly, he knew, to be this possessive about ... well, about rolls. But ... but, "When I was in the bathroom, you snatched one."

"Did I?" A serious face, and then a slow, melting smile. Which became a toothy grin. No one grinned as toothily as bats did. Oh, her white, glinting fangs, and the allusions they brought to the pulsing, panting fore ...

"Yes! I smelled it. I smelled you were in here, and ... "

"I keep forgetting you have a good nose." A glint. His sense of smell, indeed, was a good deal more advanced than her own. "Damn." A brighter glint.
"You took one, then! You admit it. You took one, and ... and you gobbled it up!" was the stammering, squeaky accusation.

She tried to keep from giggling. His mousey motions were all asunder. All asunder!

"Adelaide ... "

And her pink, winged arms, membranes and all, spread open. Spread wide. "Alright. Alright. I took the roll. But I just took one bite. That's all I had time for. It's in the other room," she said, clearing her throat. Eyes shining. "Want me to go get the ‘evidence'?"

"Mm." A whisker-twitch. "No," he mumbled, calming.

"I was hungry," the bat said. "And you're a good cook."

"Maybe," he admitted, not averse to a little bit of confidence-building. He did like to cook ... but, being a perfectionist, he was always sure he'd messed up the recipe. That it wasn't perfectly, totally right.

"You are. You're a better cook than me."

"Adelaide," he went, sighing.

"You want ... here," she said, interrupting, reaching for a roll. From the still-warm pan. "Taste." She tore off a little bit of the roll. A little bite-sized, fluffy fit of butter-horn. And she wafted it in front of him.

No muzzle movement.

"Come on. Taste. Open," she said, using her mother-like voice. The one she used with Akira (who she'd just coaxed to bed). "Open." She moved the roll-bite around like a little ‘airplane,' even making a little buzz sound.

All the mouse did was shake his head, smiling now, biting his lip. Starting to giggle-squeak. "You ... you're ... making me laugh. I don't wanna eat ‘em!" was his eventual, giggling reply. "I just ... "

"You're not gonna eat these delicious rolls?" She took a bite for herself. "Mm." Chew. "Mm."

Field, still giggle-squeaking, snatched the roll from her paw, and put it down on the kitchen table. "Stop it! This is, like ... like Adam and Eve with rolls."

A very amused giggle-chitter. "So, I'm a temptress?"

"You're in a flighty mood," he observed quietly, meeting her eyes.. "One of those ... giggly, bouncy, eye-everything-hungrily sort of things."

"Like a vamp?"

"Mm ... maybe," he said, biting his lip. "Mm."

"I'll grant as much," she agreed, and she gave him a bright look. "But I don't think you mind that ... as much as your tone of voice pretends to. I think you like it when I'm a vamp."

"Well ... I don't know."

"Admit it."

A sigh, and a helpless smile. "As I said ... you're feelin' flighty."

"And you, young whippersnapper ... you got some flour," she whispered, moving her paw to his neck, and rubbing it a bit (with her fingers). "Got some flour right there. Mm." She pulled back a tiny bit. "All clean."

He swallowed. "Th-thanks ... "

Adelaide chittered, and after a moment, moved to the sink. Reaching into the cupboard above, for a glass. And filling the glass with well-water from the silvery tap. Sipping. Saying, "You get in these moods, though." She turned to him. "These energetic, obsessive-compulsive moods. Where you cook these things just to cook them. Like cookies. You make cookies, sometimes, but you never eat them. And then we have to throw most of them out."

"I only made half a recipe of rolls," the mouse defended. "It's only one pan. We won't waste any of these ... "

"I know, but why'd you make them? Mm? You don't seem hungry ... "

"Well, I'm not hungry now, but ... maybe I will be, like, in the morning. I can have buttered rolls for breakfast," was his claim. "We both can."

"Maybe you could've waited," she suggested, "until tomorrow evening, for supper? We could've had fresh rolls for supper." Another sip of water. And she put her glass down, on the counter.

A little frown. And a little, "I don't know. I'm ... guess I'm just crazy."

"Well, I already KNEW that," she teased. Sticking out her tongue.

He stuck his tongue out, too, in retaliation. "Mm!"

"Mm!" she went, louder. And her tongue was longer. So, she always won ... with her tongue. (In more ways than one!) And a blink. And a head-tilting grin. "Thinkin' some things, are we? A bit of the nudge-nudge, wink-wink?"

"What?"

"I heard that ... in your head. Thinkin' ‘bout my tongue."

"Well ... you're stickin' it out at me! It's in full view. You're just teasin' me ... "

A chitter.

A sigh. "I guess my brain's a bat-permeable membrane, then?" Field asked.

A giggle-chitter. "I guess it is." A small smile. Her paws on his shirt. She gave a few tugs.

"Adelaide ... " A blush.

"Mm?"

"You're bein' all ... flighty."

"You already said that. We already," she whispered, "established that."

"I guess we did ..."

"Mm-hmm. And you, uh, normally," she whispered, "don't object."

"I know ... "

"And that's what bats do. We get flighty. And mouses ... what do mouses get?" she asked, considering.

"Mouses get ... mousey?" was the suggestion.

"Mm ... no, I fancy a different word than that."

He considered.

And so did she, finally announcing, "No, mouses get ... they get," she said, thinking a bit more, and then smiling. "They get scurry-ful." A pause, and a nod. "Yes. Scurry-ful."

"Scurry-ful? Scurry-ful isn't a word," Field stated plainly.

"Well, it SHOULD be," Adelaide assured. "It totally should be. I mean, why isn't it?"

"I don't rightly know ... "

"Well, let's pretend it is a word. Maybe it'll catch on."

Field didn't argue with that. After all, scurry-ful probably should, definitely, be a word.

"It's cold," Adelaide said quietly, after a momentary pause. Looking out the black-filled window. "That kind of wing-numbing cold."

"The finger-freezing cold ... that keeps you from taking pictures for too long," the mouse agreed. "That makes you have to wear a tail-sock."

A giggle-chitter. "Tail-socks," she went. "Those are the cutest things ... "

"They are not! It weighs my tail down! I can't ... it can't snake and waver with a sock on. It's like dragging a chain behind me ... "

More giggle-chitters. The bat, herself, had a much shorter tail. Stubbier, and rudder-like (for steering during flight). And hers had soft, pink fur on it. Shorter fur than could be found on the rest of her body, but enough ... while his tail, bare, invisible-haired flesh, needed protection.

"But ... it is chilly."

"Mm-hmm." The bat let out a breath, and slowly pulled out one of the wooden chairs (that belonged to the kitchen table). And she sat.

"It'll get colder," was all Field said. "It's not even close to being winter yet."

"I know," she whispered, meeting his eyes. "I think we're in for a long one. A long-haul."

"A long winter?"

"Course. The wooly worms said so ... "

"They did," Field agreed, nodding quietly.

"You gonna sit down?" she asked, quietly, hopefully.

A warm smile. "Yeah," was his wispy whisper, in his effeminate-like voice. And, he, too, pulled out a chair, and scooted it over so that it was right by his wife's. So he was sitting close to her.

They sat side-by-side in the kitchen, which was still basking in the oven's afterglow. And the scent of the fresh bread, the rolls, was still in the air.

"I kind of like the cold," Field admitted, his paws on the table-top. He moved one of his paws so that it was touching one of hers. Fingers delicately touching. His voice at a whisper. "Just, like, the ... crispness. How you see your breath. Like a kind of life force leaving you, and when you breathe back in, you almost have to cough, sometimes, cause it's so cold. It's just so sharp. I mean, the heat is hazy, and you melt in it, but ... when the cold freezes you, and when you shiver, it's such a sharp feeling."

"You feel very much alive," she confided.

A quiet, little nod. "Mm." A pause. "Not that ... not that I'm advocating cold weather over warm weather. I prefer the summer."

"I know." A smile. "So do I," she said.

"But I do like having all four seasons. I ... I don't know. It feels right. You grow more, and ... I don't know. I'm bein' a blabber-mouse."

"It's fine," she whispered.

A pause. "Is Akira okay?"

"She's alright. I can feel her," the bat whispered. Her telepathy always working. "I have a sneaking suspicion she's gonna wake up in the middle of the night, though."

"Mm ... "

"Sorry ‘bout last night, though. I ... didn't mean to snap at you."

"You were tired," he whispered. "I wasn't mad. I ... mm ... "

"Yeah." A sheepish look. The baby had woken up, crying. Adelaide hadn't been in the best of moods. She had, in frustration, yanked all the covers off the bed and tossed them to the floor, leaving the mouse to shiver and squeak in irritation in the dark of the room (with the nightlight providing a pale, soothing glow ... Field couldn't sleep without some kind of little light).

A pause.

"I'm glad the weekend's here," she said. Her paw slipping around his. Fingers meshing. A warm smile.

He smiled back, shyly. Always so shy, even when he had no reason to be.

A slight chitter from her.

The mouse, so quiet, so gentle, confided, "I ... I really don't feel like chatting. I don't have much to talk about right now. Now that I think about it ... " He bit his lip. "I mean, I just ... I'd rather just ... " He trailed.

"Go on," the pink-furred bat whispered, breathing silently.

"I'd rather just ... well, put my nose," he whispered, "in the fur of your neck. And just breathe of your pulse. And ... " A swallow. Going quiet. "It's so cold out. I just wanna be warm," was his innocent admittance. Was his conclusion.

To bury in warmth.

Is what he wanted, right now, more than anything. To bury in her. In love.

"Nothing wrong with forgoing words for warmth," she told him.

"But I never wanna be one of those couples that ... we run out of things to talk about. I love talking with you. I know we haven't talked much today, and I ... I feel bad that ... "

"I know. And we won't be one of those couples ... I know we won't," she assured. "It's okay."

"It's just, I ... sometimes, I express myself," the mouse whispered, "better ... less awkwardly, I mean, with ... "

" ... mm-hmm." She put her fingers to the mouse's lips, hushing him. Her eyes sparking. "It's okay," she assured.

A flush, and shy squeeze of her paw.

Silence.

"Couch?" she mouthed. "Or ... "

" ... bed," he whispered, ears rosy-pink. Swiveling in their dishy way.

"Sounds good," she whispered back, standing, tugging him upward, too, and ... leading him out of the kitchen. Happy to be doing so.

And the ladybug on the ceiling, still upside down, watched them go.

As she led him to expression.

Oh, what love!

Oh, what life!

Oh, for a husband and his wife to be led away, led by such, to be wanting such connection on a cold, November night. When the stars were pointed and bright, overshadowed by the moon, and where the stillness of the living room was so great as to swallow them up as they passed through it, on their way to the bedroom, the sheets and covers of the bed, where they soon did sink, stripped bare, into fur and form, breaths rising, and paws prizing each fluttering grasp of each other's bodies.

Minds in synchronous tune.

Together, being very scurry-ful.