For Sonya’s prompt.
photo by Sunyu via Unsplash
I can’t write your story, but it’s written in your eyes, the days of tracking, the fear, the fatigue and in the end, the men with spades.
They dig until they reach the heart and drag it out, still beating.
I have seen them, the cubs still blind, tossed in the waste from the cowshed, and whenever in the cool spring night, I hear a vixen call, I think of them, and all the others.