No Choice But to Shoot the Injured Squirrel in the Head.

The brain’s still working. A flicker in the leg. Those small black nails get larger when looking through a rifle scope. In the crook of a large maple I am thinking, “If it is only 72 degrees why am I sweating so?”

A black pupil looks into mine, much smaller. One more chance?

The flesh at the tip of my index finger flattened, dwarfing the fingernail. In Sunday School I learned to SQUEEZE not PULL.

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