Escaping death
Today morning I dug a grave. Reluctantly. In my frontyard. A tiny one. For the squirrel. Who lay motionless. In the balcony, near the door. Eyes open. Staring a deep meaningful look. Unblinking. The one which tugs at your heart. Very hard. So hard that it scratches your soul. I take a deep breath. Now comes the difficult part. Collecting the body. And burial. I look for help. None was available. I wear my mask. It will not protect me from the squirrel. And it will not protect the squirrel from me. But it may protect me from myself. I take a deep breath again and hold it. I make my approach like a pilot steering a jumbojet on a precarious runway. With a garden spade. (The same with which I dug the grave). It's inadequate and inappropriate. I clumsily touch the tiny squirrel's body with the spade. It shivers. And is roused! From perhaps a deep slumber! My hands shake and heart gallops at the sudden movement. The squirrel dodges the spade and makes its escape. But not bef
