I was clearing the yard of branches and rocks when I found a dead squirrel under the honeysuckle. His paws were curled like a child’s in sleep, and his hide sparkled with blue and green flies. I covered my hands in gloves and plastic bags, then picked him up by the tail. He was light and stiff, like a model built out of fabric and wire. I dropped the carcass in a trashbag which I tied in a tight knot, then disposed of it in the outdoor garbage can. Death can be beautiful, I thought. But then, I hate squirrels.
June 29, 2006
100 Words: Thing of Beauty