Voices on the Wind
The call of the wild
by Mark Vogel
Morning blood has congealed on the alien mouth,
on silver uniform hair, as if immediately
after ticking life stopped,
the last essential touches were arranged
on the ill-defined creature that now
functions as a silent lawn sculpture.
Separated by this picture window,
in another parallel world, a dead possum
laying in the morning grass grins with color
strangely drained away for this depleted vision.
He is a humble unsure corpse incapable of flight.
The trails he wore in neighborhood history
are not yet eroded—for it takes time
to erase what his actions have stamped real.
Once, teeth exposed, he hissed in panic
when I met him before the cat food bowl.
I know well he and his kind were also at home
around the dark barn, committing more
than one grisly poultry murder.
The cause of his death is unknown,
probably the dogs eager for another toy,
but we are not sorry this is his final visit.
Living on the ridge far from town,
we also know no carcass lingers for long.
Already we anticipate flies and ants will
arrive in hot afternoons to cart him home.
Many creatures will digest the evidence
of his life, which will re-emerge soon enough,
in re-fashioned forms, alive with new fur.