The wolves
Fell upon that carcass.
It exploded as they tore it;
Strips of flesh disappear like starlight,
Sucked down vacuum-like throats.

Snarls, glinting eyes flash warnings.
Flank, tail, liver:
Consumed by cold-burning hunger.
No savage, fur-faced friend wants the intestines,
Slithery hoses packed tight with
Sawdust, like the velveteen rabbit.

They lay unwanted, leaf crumbs sticking in the blood.

The beaver’s gone, all of it.
Just skull and knobbled spine remain
To be pecked and stripped by dark-winging ravens.

The wolves are calm, all of them.
Distended pregnant bellies anchor
Those sturdy frames to the ground.

Fat and lolling, furry and lounging.
Wise golden coins are covered,
One by one,
By the heavy cloth of lids and contented sleep.