I did not fall upon you,
as was his urge.
Already fed that hunger,
that marrow's life
would not be mine.
I admired, too much,
your fat dexterity,
the nimble fetch
of your paw,
as you bent to yourself
the road-side blue
of the chicory.
Sweet-chuck.
Chub-pot.
Waggle-bear.
Even if your lowly mansions
threaten ruin of my barns.
And it's true, in disbelief,
once, I startled you up a tree.
Who of us, bound by gravity,
does not at risk take flight?
I have been, like-wise,
harried out of character.
So when I found the bloat
of your old body,
forage done; winter
the too, too early den,
with summer's quire
of biblical light
still falling.
Death's rich stink,
a spume in the air.
The usual communion of flies
gathered to lip at the blood cup,
at the un-relieved, rose
bludgeon of your smile.

I was not surprised.