Robert Lee Kendrick

End day sun  
seeps through primer gray  
clouds, gives  
the last of its warmth  
to the rain  
swollen creek, as a hook  
necked buzzard  
picks flesh from a possum 
behind my truck.  
One thing has to die  
for another  
to eat, I say to the leaves.  

Some man's  
shirtless son takes aim  
at a headless  
torso he's hung from a tree,  
makes music  
with knives, going straight  
to the heart.  

Driving home to my wife,  
I'll spread   
tailpipe smoke on young trees. Two years   
since she miscarried. 
Some chromosome rot in one of us, or both,  
& no luck.  

A small wake drives water  
apart. A beaver 
gathers mouthfuls of branches & mud,  
his daily work
of patching the dam.  

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