Upon the accidental death of a chipmunk...
Careful With Your Machines, Please
A streak of brown in the morning light
No time to swerve, bad timing.
Bump.
What have I done, what chance is this?
Looking back, crazed motion
The coming night.
Neurons firing spastically
Beyond control.
No one’s home anymore.
I return on foot to the final scene
No more a spasm; a small brown
Lump.
Surrounded by a spray of life’s blood,
Forever frozen in its final act:
Trying to cross to the other side.
Truly we must fear what we can become.
Without even meaning to, we are capable of taking life.
Our machines grind away, and sometimes a life
Is seized by the gears, and without purpose.
Without meaning
Death.
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