it is the sound that
ends things
that does not leave
when the deed is done
worse than the glimpse
I caught that night
of the mother
and the small ones
there
on the Limebank Road
a flash in the headlights
the brakes too late
the cursing
if only the developers
had come the fall before
wrecked the farm
a season earlier
diverted that creek
beneath the maples
they would not have been there
scurrying so, the fur
the terror, those small
bright eyes
the rains washed the stains away
and the skid marks over time
everything but that sound.
c 2011
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