Feb 2015
A crow lights on a low branch of a bare mesquite tree.
Yesterday a hunter shot a deer. His aim was poor. So was the light. He ran a long time before he remembered he had died.
'Bang.'
"God. I must be dead. But run? I should run?"
A long ways off. Deep in the woods he slid down to his knees. The adrenaline faded fast. When there was so little blood left.
"God... I forgot... It was only... So long ago... A minute... When you're bleeding so much... It's slow."
His big, cold body slept there through the night.
His chest looked to breathe. But it was the swirling, slicing winds tearing the night in all directions. Swaying his short fur.
The morning crept in blue. After a mourning black night. Navy skies swept in.
Coyotes catch his smell as the winds choose a direction and slice that way only.
The Family trickles in.
Drip. From the woods. One. Lonely. Follows the air.
Splash. He finds him. Deep in the woods. But darts away.
"Deer don't fall like that."
He watches crouched behind a cactus. Watches for kicks. Shakes. To see if the fur moves like he's breathing.
The wind made its mind and his chest rests still.
Still as the dog. Nobody else is. So he does.
He rises up and cracks int the morning with short, sharp howls.
And the family drops in. Rains in. On that dry navy morning.
There's eight now. They watch each other.
Not the body. They watch each other.
"It's free." They say.
"Free to me." They say back.
"Howl lucky we are." They laugh and laugh and lust. Lust for the free wet meat on a dry day.
Circled they tear into their free meal. And each other. A little.
When they get in the way. Can't blame them.
There's so many. So hungry. Don't get in the way.
A crow lights on a lights on a low branch of a bare mesquite tree.
The first to see.
The sky shed its navy suit and starts to see.
But first came the crow. The first to see.
The day began. It shines first on his feather. The first they see.
He drops neat to the earth and rips the lid from the eye of a little coyote.
'A test.' He tells us he thinks.
To the family. Blood is blood. From the little nip they rip more. A hole as wide as their hunger has made their lust. For blood. Blood is blood.
It took a little nudge. A nip. To do what's natural.
Little coyote died more naturally than the deer. He was splayed much more quickly. In the dust and the blood and the fur. Who could tell?
'Who can see this but me?'
'What you've done to the least of you, you've done to yourself.'
A crow lights on a low branch of a bare mesquite tree.
This day as the last day. Begins as it ended.
But the night was quiet. Still.
And the crow is quiet. Still. On his branch.
What more is he to do? They can't be taught better than any of the others.
Yesterday a hunter shot a deer. His aim was poor. So was the light. He ran a long time before he remembered he had died.
'Bang.'
"God. I must be dead. But run? I should run?"
A long ways off. Deep in the woods he slid down to his knees. The adrenaline faded fast. When there was so little blood left.
"God... I forgot... It was only... So long ago... A minute... When you're bleeding so much... It's slow."
His big, cold body slept there through the night.
His chest looked to breathe. But it was the swirling, slicing winds tearing the night in all directions. Swaying his short fur.
The morning crept in blue. After a mourning black night. Navy skies swept in.
Coyotes catch his smell as the winds choose a direction and slice that way only.
The Family trickles in.
Drip. From the woods. One. Lonely. Follows the air.
Splash. He finds him. Deep in the woods. But darts away.
"Deer don't fall like that."
He watches crouched behind a cactus. Watches for kicks. Shakes. To see if the fur moves like he's breathing.
The wind made its mind and his chest rests still.
Still as the dog. Nobody else is. So he does.
He rises up and cracks int the morning with short, sharp howls.
And the family drops in. Rains in. On that dry navy morning.
There's eight now. They watch each other.
Not the body. They watch each other.
"It's free." They say.
"Free to me." They say back.
"Howl lucky we are." They laugh and laugh and lust. Lust for the free wet meat on a dry day.
Circled they tear into their free meal. And each other. A little.
When they get in the way. Can't blame them.
There's so many. So hungry. Don't get in the way.
A crow lights on a lights on a low branch of a bare mesquite tree.
The first to see.
The sky shed its navy suit and starts to see.
But first came the crow. The first to see.
The day began. It shines first on his feather. The first they see.
He drops neat to the earth and rips the lid from the eye of a little coyote.
'A test.' He tells us he thinks.
To the family. Blood is blood. From the little nip they rip more. A hole as wide as their hunger has made their lust. For blood. Blood is blood.
It took a little nudge. A nip. To do what's natural.
Little coyote died more naturally than the deer. He was splayed much more quickly. In the dust and the blood and the fur. Who could tell?
'Who can see this but me?'
'What you've done to the least of you, you've done to yourself.'
A crow lights on a low branch of a bare mesquite tree.
This day as the last day. Begins as it ended.
But the night was quiet. Still.
And the crow is quiet. Still. On his branch.
What more is he to do? They can't be taught better than any of the others.
