Dave Bonta starts with a small, blunt memory: taking over the killing of chickens from his father, a lifelong pacifist. The speaker admits it bothered him a little less than it bothered his dad, and the haiku that follows holds the uneasy mix of beauty and guilt, with swans flying overhead while his fingers are still sticky with blood.
The prose then jumps forward. As a young man he liked the idea that poetry "makes nothing happen," as if that meant a peaceful, harmless job. Decades later, he sees that everything keeps happening: money circulating like "malignant, abstract blood," ice melting, forests burning, drought on his mountain. The blood image links the farm chore to a larger, less visible violence.
The closing haiku is quieter. After rain finally comes, a turtle looks from the speaker to the sky. The mood is troubled and watchful, but there is a flicker of relief, and perhaps a sense that the speaker is being quietly judged.