The Fox Hunt

A red fox,
a cold morning.
The squirrel never
had a chance
once it turned down
the first tree,
a birch in my front yard.
The death was soundless,
sudden, the squirrel’s tiny atman,
no larger than an atom,
gone in an instant’s gnash,
the fox trotting off
as if the unfortunate
squirrel dangling
from her mouth
meant nothing
to itself.