Ravens issue the invitation—a raucous one—
throaty voices calling over and over,
their circling flight provides the address;
some sit on fence posts awaiting their turn
but call out—oh, how delectable the feast—
in the deep snow a trail of blood,
is evidence of the coyote’s last steps
near the base of a hill off Upper Beaver Creek.
Party crashers come: magpies, eagles—
the golden takes his place at the head of the table,
his body ratchets up and down, great beak
tearing flesh—the ravens and magpie nibble
at the periphery, but when the golden eagle
raises a taloned foot or shifts slightly
the smaller birds skitter out of range
of the great bird’s talons or beak.
Nearby three bald eagles perch in trees,
a study in patience, they will take their turns—
the splayed body of the coyote diminishes
bite-by-bite as the birds feast,
and the remains provide sustenance
to less obvious nocturnal visitors, or insects
and will quietly decompose, but presently
the carcass and blood splattered snow
is a busy, noisy place of birds big and small,
of hierarchies and appetites.
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