They come in the dead of night,
seeking feast to fill their black soul.
With a fast wit and hefty might
they circle fences,
running their claws against metal,
waiting to feel whole.
They come in the form of
a cruising metal red,
black as the charcoal
they pretend to dig,
and brown the shade of eyes
that roams from bed to bed.
They leap and they growl,
tearing through fur
making crimson red blur.
The slice of skin,
the crack of bone.
'That coat will mesh nicely with
the colors in my den,'
thought the farm hand
as he holds his gun like
a killer whales fin.