November 2016
It is creeping across
the withered backcountry.
Where grim fogs graze hills
and gray mists haunt
the hollows that hug
our forsaken highways,
it lurches through thickets,
downs leaves, downs limbs.
It strips the bronze stalks
of the harvest, it steals
the firstling of the flock
to gladden its feeding.
In a ditch by our fence
they found Doc’s daughter.
The balefires burn.
Others are butchered.
Groped by our grief,
in the grizzled air
we have shrieked lamentations,
longing for a law
to punish the predator
and make firm a peace.
All the high councils
have condemned the creature,
and still it stands
astride the county,