Landscape with Scavengers and Bonelight

All day the ravens shit the buck whitetail back onto his antlers, the thick arcing tines graffitied with undigested tendons. Coyote- dragged, draped in a squawking garment that rises tattered when redtail-harried — revealing ribs, links of spine, tongue-clean sockets — and falls, in patches, back, stitched with wingsound. A feathered hush. Says you will go down in the dirt. First the four-leggeds ferrying your shape across the slough, yipping nothing resembling a name, large birds then like lamp-drawn moths, before the six-limbed elders arrive as one mind, as shifting soil, to polish what’s left, forsaking only the inedible brain.