Thud

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