Dirt divers, you pop up, fast and fleshy weeds. We turn
our ankles where you’ve been and bust your heads
for fun. In the lab of summertime we experiment the finer points
of poison, snares, gasoline, twist your tails off at the root,
then finally, old enough, use that Christmas .22 gifted
lovingly oiled, with a big red bow. You eat and breed. We try
to drown you out. You’re thieves, and we can’t spare a thing.
In winter, as you coma deep inside your rancid holes,
we satisfy ourselves chasing rabbits with Ski-doos
until spring when hungry coyotes raid the coops and we need
to shoot them too. They kill the fawns, reserved
for city hunters who pay cash to anyone who’ll take them
through the fields. Each season has its cruelties. It’s for the best.
Is nature not more callous than the gun? First and precious
taste of blood, there’s always more where you come from.
(Source: Wikipedia)
• poetry • Karen Solie • link •