All day the ravens shit the buck whitetail
back onto his antlers, the thick arcing tines
graffitied with undigested tendons. Coyote-
dragged, draped in a squawking garment
that rises tattered when redtail-harried —
revealing ribs, links of spine, tongue-clean
sockets — and falls, in patches, back, stitched
with wingsound. A feathered hush. Says you will
go down in the dirt. First the four-leggeds
ferrying your shape across the slough, yipping
nothing resembling a name, large birds then like
lamp-drawn moths, before the six-limbed elders
arrive as one mind, as shifting soil, to polish
what’s left, forsaking only the inedible brain.
Source: Poetry (May 2008).