A fight to the death—the eel speared,
Writhing, two crows, tactical usurpers,
Hungry, greedy, sneaky, watched the eel flip,
Dark, wet from the river. A life gulped by a cormorant.
It is as if the eel had never existed.
And what we are all afraid of happened
In an instant, the not being known before
Dying, in a morning of cobwebs and rose petals,
Come to ground, with dogs and shadows. High
Blue skies turned white with heat. The cormorant spread
Black eagle wings, its body, an eel, shivered,
Glorying in life even as the grass died beneath our feet.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.
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