Rows of paper, parchment corpses,
Stinking, verminous, condemned,
Dragging down the string frayed out
Between two trees.
He bent and lifted up a crow’s skull
In a brown, exploring hand.
Him dead, he said, and threw it down.
Yes, there’s his tearing beak, the holes for eyes,
The structure of his life.
Why man kill him?
Because he tried to live as best he might,
Eating and taking according to his need.
Because he’s the wrong colour.
The wood is full, stuffed
With game birds, pampered, fed,
Artificially preserved.
He died that they might live
Safely, a little longer
In the shrinking wood.
Soon it will be the open season.
(June,
1973)
