A cold winter’s breeze shivered through her skin.
She stood dead in her tracks
Noticing the blood stained blanket of snow.
As red as roses, the squirrel
Squashed to its bitter end.
The question rang through her head
“Who could have done this?”
Softly caressing the silky skin
She dragged her fingers across the wound.
The sharp jagged edges,
The glossy bones,
The shiny organs
Were nothing compared to her pain.
At nine years-old she could not understand.
The deer lay still in the middle of the path.
At sixteen years-old she could understand
The horror which lay before her.
She knew the victim,
She knew the criminal.
She knew the crime.