for the squirrels

he lay fetally on the yellow line
his right eye marbled a black hollow
his feet packed neatly
and his tail humbly eyebrowed.
i have never maneuvered death
and honor the pallbearers and shomerim
who were once affected.
i turned him, prodding, trying to balance him between the forked palm.
the distance was safe.
he rolled on the asphalt and i winced.
the lids of his left eye met.
he is covered with damp leaves on my neighbors front.
Grace Happens