It is not a pretty sight. I pointed to the stained cobblestones.
What isn’t? My walking stick, constant companion now, asked.
Carcass strewn on the pavement, Stick! A birdling’s carrion,
one with an uningested wriggler between its broken beak,
stared back at me between eyes half-chucked out of sockets
that must have slid down its tiny breast when the wind came.
Story of our lives, I said. Stick perked up: What is? What is?
You know, just when we would have had a bellyfull of chow,
we get cut down, even before coffee and doughnuts and love.
That’s it, Stick! I will not take this anymore. Endurance, nil,
Act of God, the full enchilada. It will always be uneven, Stick.
Violence on the birdwing, that is the daily axiom. Patience?
Love? Endure this carnage anyway you want, Stick. I quit.
Let me just behead these dandelions, and skies be damned.
—Albert B. Casuga