The Angel of Death is a Simple Dog

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THE ANGEL OF DEATH IS A SIMPLE DOG 


Turns out, when the dog gets out

he doesn't get the chickens, just outs

them from a mindless afternoon 


of perpetual pecking 

for worms and other scraps

among the wood chips. 


He’s a hound, and plenty quick 

for their flightless wings and jurassic

gait—foragers make easy bait.


Instead, he simply buzzes them a bit,

like a sparrow to an uninvited guest

trimming too close to the nest.


They flutter off a couple yards,

clucking in brief distress before

resuming their perennial search


for provisions. He sits to watch—

parental almost—until called

back inside. He's a simple


dog: all he wants is to ruffle our feathers 

into noticing how delicious

this late Summer light, 


how indulgent whatever light 

morsels we happen upon, 

roused suddenly into tasting them again.


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