Smell of blood
thick-mixed with soil
in the air here above where
an animal fell,
where there is a depression
formed as it thrashed its last
at the root of the oak. Tiny bites of fur
from its coat cling to the bark.
The body itself is gone,
taken by its hunter or perhaps another
who needed it. I am not skilled enough
to tell by blood or hair what was here,
but it was big. It must have lived
at least a full lifetime to be that heavy;
heavy living that led to heavy lifting.
What remains floats in the air, lighter
than its death would suggest but still
thick-laden with mysterious red flavor,
and I cannot help it. I cannot help but suck that in.
I cannot help how heavy I’ve become.