It Was Yoked to a Black Hunger

The raven lifted.

Circled like a skate on a groove of air -

the fur on the hare ruffled up.

Ruffling up,

each follicle trying

to leave that meat

as the raven swooped down, poked its beak

into that beating snuff,

the rabbit not dead not yet -

it pecked and pecked, until the one red spot welled up.

A thin steam from the rabbit, like a wick blown out.

The snow sparkling.

And the raven cocked its black eye, dipped its beak

in the red pool it had made -

for the ink of elegy.