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.


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