As a boy growing up
on a poultry farm, every
Saturday morning would find
me collecting carrion from the roadside:
skunks, oppossums, raccoons,
groundhogs, and an occasional
red fox or two.
Even as a child, I sensed more
than coincidence was at play
behind these legions of animal carcasses,
behing all that protoplasm splattered
across a winding rural road.
Some mornings, I could hear
angels talking to the dead animals.
'Stay still, ' the angels whispered.