A pile of ashes, it so looked like from
a window, feathers, fluff, turned out to be,
suggesting pigeon; twitching in the brown,
a delicate, deft plucking, contrary
to common garden rules, where foxes cross
discreetly, cat may catch mouse out of sight;
but here, this tiny butcher set up shop,
the lawn his table, dining, as a right
God-given, openly, and undisturbed
as any contour in that idyllic scene,
tearing and wrenching, bird feasting on bird;
and we must watch, and see how coats of green
that cover trees and field, and make for eyes
a bloodless theme, sprouts red in more than flowers;
and in our biased scheme of paradise
ongoing violence, the falcon honors.
