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The Wild's Ways
Through binoculars I see him from a-back
frolicking, jumping, and bucking around.
A squeal escapes his lips and sounds
back to me in the distance, a frown I lack.
A bucking bronco, his coat sheer as black
jostling up other colts, the class clown.
The alpha rears and strikes, gifting a severe wound.
My jaw drops, sitting helplessly a-back.
No longer a member of the herd
the colt surrenders, his foolish days over.
It’s too late, the choice an irreversible black hole.
He will die on his own, one friend a bird.
Blocked from the rest like a game of Red Rover.
It’s the cycle of life that I sigh at its immature soul.