This animal tail is devoid of animal. It is clean and decorative,
the blood dyeing the sides of the drainage ditch
the echo of violence. Some coyote was here,
some falcon artiste concerned with only its own creation.
But nothing now, except me and this mystery unfolded.
Wyoming is a silent expanse. Emptiness and the wind
the only visible inhabitants. But evidence is everywhere: deer
pellets, cow patties, splotches of white and black bird dung.
I am alone, and I am responsible. No yips or bird cries
take credit for this tail, only proof of the animal
that was. I will not bury it. In the grass
a beer can shines like an arrogant, forgotten tooth.