Monday, May 14, 2012




The weasel came while I was gone,
Sliver moon in the crepuscular sky,
Black nose alive with the scent of chicken.

Came through a hole torn in the plywood
Among the roosting birds –
O unfortunate and terrified birds –
Came ripping and slashing until they were all dead but one,
Wildly gutted,
White feathers splashed with blood and gore,
Red combs lifeless on the mud floor.

I buried them deep in the hard clay.
Said the Su Jo Mu Hen,
Shoveling the marled soil over their ruined glory.

That was yesterday.
Today the one survivor, the saddest of all chickens,
Stands in the yard, sunning herself,
Gazing first this way, then that,
Puzzled by the loss of her dead companions.

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