Archenemy
Population
Numbers
Mass.
Perhaps there is nothing?
There could be nothing
Softened kid
Hardened hatchling
A mourning murder
Cubs
Joeys
Taken across lawn clippings
Its cold flesh soft
Mending with the grass
Gentle blades kissing the carcass
Smitten farewells
To the chopping block
The pattern in the wood
Looks like home
The disinfectant
Smells poisonous
Cleaver relief
Molding into the press
Maybe I will feed another
Will they be food?
At least, that is an admirable death
For my end to have purpose
Brings respect to our species
I fought hard