Poetry Archives

After we called the sheriff, they came
and hauled it away.  But there was
one interviewer who stayed behind,
to ask if we’d seen any strange lights
in the sky at night, or burnt places
in the pasture, or flocks of hippies
traveling through in their painted vans.

Nothing, we told him.  Only that pair
of buzzards floating over the north fork 
but never landing.  No signs, no tracks.  
Only the shaggy lump of the steer, 
with its tongue gone, ears cut off,
and eyes—cored out clean, like apples.
Nothing, no blood on the ground,
and no flies crawling anywhere.

“Natural predator,” he said, closing
his book.  “That’s how we’ll write it up.
Now, I know what you’re thinking:  
no bear, no mountain lion, no coyotes
in these parts for a hundred years.
And none of them make cuts like that
or leave that much good meat behind.
But something’s coming back.  Natural
predator,” he said again.  He tipped
his hat.  “You folks take care now.”