They begin pristine
in their precise
composition
like two dancers
center stage
their muscled torsos
strutting and swaying
in perfect rhythm.
Rocketing
limbs splayed
as they spiral down
landing abruptly into the mud
coating every square inch
as if it were a precious salve
from the Dead Sea.
Sliding and rolling across the wet terrain
eight large paws leave no stone unturned
no blade of grass still, no fruit untried.
A rushing river hangs back
as they race by
two competitors
colliding into a break dance of
epic proportion.
Barking,
"BEWARE
YOUR SEASON IS AT HAND."
"BEWARE
YOUR SEASON IS AT HAND."
Choose with care.
Sharpen your wits.
It will suit you to study
carefully, the mastiff manual.
They are untroubled by
your crow and your claws.
They will smell your green
goo as it drips off the edge
of a palm frond
overlooking the pond’s edge.
Squash that splash!
Hide your red-orange
flash and fan-tails.
Their hunger is fierce.
They will
excrete your squirming mass
swallowed whole
next to
the chirping peep
fins,
feathers and entrails
laced with reckless dread.
As they pause
pacified
to chew on a twig
flossing
away the fragments
in the midday sun.
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