a possum, not playing, innards unclad,
flattened at paw and paw, vinca its bed;
it has nearly everything it had
but all. And there, the deer, and there, the skunk
with vultures, rising tatters from their klatsch,
disturbed, but undisturbed, from the split trunk
of luck and accident, their beaks unlatch,
black mantles spread, both decorous and rapt
though raptors they are not, (they do not kill).
Who was so wary, who, so thunderclapped
by headlight and instinct, kept very still?
What’s natural endangers, intimates
of lull and silence, too easy targets.