The thread of compassion is
broken, their hearts lie bleeding,
drained pale, and yet they never
know, those who scrute the skies, gun
muzzle raised, never see when
some small craft of light bone and
feather falls so far from home.
Tell the wind the story of
how you followed your passion
for death (the death of others)
into the coverts, where life
lay trembling after a night
of cold rain, and snuffed it out.
Dare its cold disdain, minable.
And when the stars look down and
the sun sends light into each
covert where those feathers and
scraps of fur cold as night lie
stiff in reproach, do you see
a stolen life in that soiled
beauty? Are you the wiser?