The Morning After

Another storm last night —
thunder explosions and rain
bulleting the metal roof.

I followed the trail
of red-brown feathers
through the long wet grass

but didn’t find the rest
of the rooster.   Maybe a hawk
took him, more likely a fox

or a lone coyote. This world
is an over-ripe apple cleaved
into predator and prey.

The morning sky is latticed
pink and blue.   When
did I become a man

who sees every blessed sunrise?

 

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