Thursday, March 11, 2010

Rustling pulls our attention to shadows behind the shed.
Lily is around the lawnmower over the stonewall and across a brief space walled in by glacial rock.
She’s after that possum we often catch scurrying between a gap in stones. Imagine warm sprays of blood and squeals of suffering where one minute the possum trundled through dry leaves and another its vertebrae snapped like milk crackers under Lily’s jaw. I call for Jerry.
Lily trots back, head up, with a limp possum draped between her teeth.
As I reach to her she drops her head low and lets the possum fall. Up close I see crumbled leaves stuck to its mouth, and think that its roundish little fleshy ears look like wax. Feeling bad for being angry, I realize Lily must have survived this way when she would escape her prior home and roam.
Pulling her gently Lily walks past me to Jerry and into the house.
The possum gets up and wobbles away. Oh Lily.

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