Looking out the kitchen window we see the cat with a furry thing flinging it in the air, pause, pouncing, in the air— a baby rabbit, whose passive, unblinking eyes look the look of helplessness, of limp defeat, silent opens its little mouth and Baillie moans, a life and a life— the cat bites into the neck of the warm thing then crunches its ear, and into its eye and I tell her the cat had already killed it not sure if I am lying
15 September 1977