Them **** beasts
Hunt our cattle
Picking out the weak.
Go get your rifle, son.
Go fetch your boots.
Look best skinned
Across the bed
Of this old truck.
I nod along with them.
I plod along with them to get the guns;
Isn't this necessary,
But inside my soul
I feel a dark night spreading
No, not sinister
The stars above like scattered drifts
Of snow spilled in the wind and crunching under
And I am standing on a narrow ridge
Hidden like some ephemeral thing,
Like sweetgrass burning in the wind;
And I can feel them rising.
I can hear them crying,
A ghostly sobbing.
Falling on my knees
I call them.
To the draw they run!
Like so many mothers clutch their young
And all the warriors toss their guns
And still the cavalry descends,
Across the creek and trailing blood, she runs.
Singing her howling song, she runs.
Howling her death song, she runs.
And in one last act of desperation falls.
I see them drag her carcass up the draw.
And in the truck, they’re laughing,
Humming, slapping knees, and spitting,
Like some celebratory release.
In my head, a single phrase:
Them **** beasts.
Bringing this one back How we slaughter beautiful things for our own security.