Squirrel

A cat has caught a squirrel,
and I have come out to stop
the noise.

First, I chase the cat away from the squirrel.
He does not go far, sits
and watches from the lawn
as I bend over the small body

that is screaming
limply, the hole in the throat
weakening the voice slowly
but not so slowly
that it does not make me cringe.

Next, I step back to watch the squirrel get up
and try to climb the maple three times,
getting no farther than four or five feet up
before the grip gives out and there’s a clumsy tumble
into this squirming on the ground,
eventually lying on his (or her) side,
panting, squeaking softly
like a balloon
losing air.

I am glad my knife is sharp.

I lean in and set the point on the ground near the neck
and draw it fast and firmly across the leaking wound.

It all ends instantly,
the animal going limp at once.

I wipe the blade on the rough grass
next to the curb.

The cat is still watching, waiting for his chance to see
what has happened to his kill.

His kill?

At home, I wash the blade in the sink for ten minutes
under the hottest water I can stand, then do the same with my hands.

I know I have done the right thing
and I cannot stop shaking;

this is, sometimes, what it takes.