A rifle on my shoulder, I am in the henhouse again. 
The scream is one pitch too high for human. The weasel 
is a white scarf at her throat, pas de deux of feather and fur 
I watch through my gun sight, empty metal eye 
inches from its collar of snow, blast that shatters any dance. 
The weasel falls back, starts to rise, as if it were easy, one motion, 
no difference between the hen’s blood in its mouth and the red 
hole spreading its ribs. I step on it hard: the flash of black eyes. 
It claws, bites my boot. We are three bodies in soiled pine shavings, 
three mouths. The weasel winces, eyes close, open—limbs stretch 
into the last hard act of breath. The second bullet slips, 
trembling, from my hand. I drop the gun hard, once. Twice. 
But the weasel’s elegant neck won’t snap. I find the bullet, 
reload, press into the pink-white fold of ear, pull. 
Gunpowder in sawdust, a soft head slap. I reach down 
to grasp what I have done. I lift it by the tail.