The old mink escaped the farm on Thursday
not knowing why he was there at all.
He wandered over grass and through hay
until he reached the river and without a glance
dived in, a black slither on azure glass.
Not one to go hungry he looked to eat,
and found none, confined with no way to pass.
The mallard did not see death till she was meat.
The daggers severed her thoughts from her heat.
Not to worry, her unused dreams would feed
another's, and fuel their endless hunger.
A once green bank becomes cloaked in seeds.
The predator once a prisoner sleeps,
hoards and fattens on bones of voles and geese.
(This sonnet was written earlier this year.)
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