Burying the Runt

Rain so long
the dusty pink bucket
outside the basement brims
and a puny squirrel floats
                                             face-down.
I dig a hole in the azalea bed
near the stairwell. The ground splits
          into a glove
                    with root threads for fingers.
                                   I trickle
                                   the bucket into its palm.
                    The runt’s round stare catches the sun.

I cover the fuzzy ribs. Close the glove. Smooth
          the hole.                Bless the soul
                    in case
          there’s somewhere else.