On a recent afternoon I enjoyed a peaceful interlude while the baby napped upstairs. I sat at the table and watched the backyard through the frame of the picture window. It was cold inside, but colder out, and everything felt slightly damp. It’s that time of year when a fire often seems overkill, but fortunately there are plenty of apples and pumpkins for baking to give the house a touch of warmth and spice.

Dampness darkened the colors outside. The understory glowed against the gray sky. Taller trees stood mostly bare, although a few canopies were still fleshed out. Sparse leaves quivered, sometimes breaking into a free-fall that attracted the eye. Similar movements resolved into birds, betrayed by speed or defiance of gravity.

After I watched for a while I realized the backyard was a busy place. A chipmunk ran across, posing for a second on the seat of an Adirondack chair. A red squirrel traveled in spurts up a tree trunk, its tail changing constantly from flat and calm to up and agitated. Suddenly it turned around and retreated for no obvious reason. Winter birds such as titmice and jays moved among the branches. A golden-crowned kinglet flitted among spent goldenrods, its flash of yellow like a visible comment. At the table I was surrounded by house noises. Propane bubbled in the workings of the refrigerator. The house spoke in a low hum like silence given voice, interrupted by one of our cats purring contentedly as she tried to either obstruct my view or step on my writing. Outside I knew I would hear the jays calling, crows cawing, and a cardinal or two chipping in the brush.

Migrating birds were still present. A gray catbird tumbled among the young trees surrounding the garden. Yellow-rumped warblers flashed their butter-butts. Two hermit thrushes patronized the large pokeweeds decorating the yard with still-green leaves and, more importantly, fat purple berries. For the migrating birds this was a respite from travel, though not without its dangers. My mother-in-law’s cats lurk in the underbrush, when they’re not hiding from the weather in her house. Our house has plenty of windows to confuse a startled bird. I wondered for a moment if the birds felt adrift in a hostile world, but “home” is a concept for those of us who build and use shelters. Even our winter residents will live a transient existence in search of food.

It would have been a great picture. The handsome mouse lay curled in on itself, like the woolly bear we showed to the baby later in the day. Its lower body was white, its sides golden brown, and a dark band followed its back. I didn’t take its picture, though, because I thought I might have killed the creature with my shovel.

I had been moving topsoil from a pile to a new flowerbed. When I dumped the load, the mouse emerged like form from nothingness. Neither fear nor breath moved the body, except… maybe there was a twitch. Or just the way one’s eyes create movement when held still for too long. I gently turned the mouse over but could discover no wounds in the supple body. Maybe the damage was all internal? As far as I knew, our mice don’t hibernate. Even our chipmunks, which do, are still foraging, filling the woods with chirrups and rustling leaves.

I could still take a picture of a dead mouse, but it doesn’t feel right. Not one that I’ve killed directly or indirectly. There’s a sense of exploitation, or disrespect. Telling the story feels different, since the part I’ve played is firmly in place rather than off screen. As for giving meaning to an accidental death, the idea of not wasting death is a human one, not a comfort to the dead creature itself. It’s interesting that humans attribute such feelings to fellow creatures, when most humans in life or death situations would happily take the bastards down with them. It is also not a woodland idea, where death is savored by assorted creatures from the large to the microscopic.

I removed the body to the base of a rotting stump. It began to pulse in on itself, but even with this sign of life (or at least electrical activity) I resisted a picture. The movement reminded me of birds that have fatally injured themselves on windows. I left it alone to its fate, because a predator is not a comfort to the dying.

It was gone when I returned, and I realized I could have taken the picture guilt-free.

Later I was able to fill in my information gaps with our reference books. The rodent was technically not a mouse but a jumping mouse. Woodland jumping mice hibernate about half the year, which would account for the early internment. They are common yet rarely seen. So I probably won’t have another chance.