Saturday, March 5, 2011

Ripped Apart

A lone coyote howl;
tame, plaintive, cool,
wafts over the desert plain
under the glow of the setting sun.
The furtive scout disappears
behind the brambles
of mesquite and creosote.

Later, under a lashed and lurid moon
a band of howling hunters preys
on a mammal small.
Sinister snickers surround
piercing childlike screams
in otherworldly madness.
(Oh dread, it must be a rabbit)

The pawing, snarling, ripping
of flesh sounds ripely perverse
in the silent shadows.

Hours later, under the waning stars
the blood drunk banditos
are whooping it up
over the night-time spoils.
Their victory hoots are fearsome
and sickening in that early hour of gloom.

By the first peek of the sun's streaming
over the brambles black
I could only think of the lone
defenseless rabbit,
dead in his innocence.