A DYING ANIMAL
Steven Pelcman
Her paw weighs
no more than that
of a leaf and trembles
at even the sounds of light
that rise from under
the snow in winter,
and there is little more
to expect other than
a brief moment for her dying,
so that her whimpering
can melt away
under the heavy darkness.
I put my hand
in the bloody footprint
and feel moonlight
roll over me like fur
ruffling in wind,
and I smell the odor
of something damp
and sticky and wild,
and I know that something
had been alive, that it had sung
the same song as darkness
sings to itself when no one is listening