Loggerhead
Aidan Baker
They call her ‘The Butcher.
’Sharp, dark eyes under a cap of grey,
Alight with suspicion
And the intent to remain unassuming –
One of Nature’s many tactical falsehoods,
Which lends itself nicely to her kind of fun.
She sings, she shrieks, she wards off trespassers,
And, yes, she slaughters when it suits her.
There is little else to be done.
Just ten miles north of Rio Grande,
Her domain lies under a cruel sun
And over a spread of bladed yucca.
In plying her trade,
Her favorite hook is a rusted stretch of wire,
No greater than a meter in length.
A Spanish bayonet will do in a pinch,
But she has her preferences.
Only two pine posts, soft with rot,
Now remain upright,
That line still drawn tight between them,
Drooping into red coils where the tension lets up.
She has five pikes to adorn,
Changing decor with the seasons.
Right now, to the far left, is a snake,
Steel twisted deftly through his middle
So that he hangs artfully from tail to head.
This has been his post for a week now,
Skin crisp in the Texan boil,
Pretty needle bones visible where flesh has been stripped.
Then come her two horned lizards,
Who are little more than scales by now.
Their heads remain, however,
Mouths agape at one another
In wide grins that speak of some pleasant surprise.
Next is the mouse,
A poor and plaintive thing,
Puny, pinned, parted from herself with one, two, three whips of the neck.
She is shriveled paws and a stiff tail,
Hardly visible now in the tuft of down that was once a body.
Beside her, on the fifth barb,
Arrives today’s choice cut –
Newly acquainted with Death,
Still pliable and full in form –
The little Butcher,
Reminiscent of some distant Wallachian warlord,
Prunes and prods a mirror image of herself,
Piercing flesh and feathers of grey, black, and white
Onto that final spike.Unaware of the irony
(Or perhaps unconcerned),
She betrays a gentle visage
With a mouth savagely curved.
The carcass holds steady as she rends
Her fellow tradesman asunder
For the sake of lunch.
Swallowing and sated,
She flits to the nearest pine post to admire her work
In chittering contentedness:
A masterfully crafted larder,
Arranged with artistry, finesse,
And (I’m sure) no small amount of pride.
As a shopkeep of bloody wares –
In other words, a butcher –
The loggerhead shrike continues her four-year reign of terror.
She will make it to five
If she watches the sky,
For its many eyes, under little caps of grey,
Are watching her too.
’Sharp, dark eyes under a cap of grey,
Alight with suspicion
And the intent to remain unassuming –
One of Nature’s many tactical falsehoods,
Which lends itself nicely to her kind of fun.
She sings, she shrieks, she wards off trespassers,
And, yes, she slaughters when it suits her.
There is little else to be done.
Just ten miles north of Rio Grande,
Her domain lies under a cruel sun
And over a spread of bladed yucca.
In plying her trade,
Her favorite hook is a rusted stretch of wire,
No greater than a meter in length.
A Spanish bayonet will do in a pinch,
But she has her preferences.
Only two pine posts, soft with rot,
Now remain upright,
That line still drawn tight between them,
Drooping into red coils where the tension lets up.
She has five pikes to adorn,
Changing decor with the seasons.
Right now, to the far left, is a snake,
Steel twisted deftly through his middle
So that he hangs artfully from tail to head.
This has been his post for a week now,
Skin crisp in the Texan boil,
Pretty needle bones visible where flesh has been stripped.
Then come her two horned lizards,
Who are little more than scales by now.
Their heads remain, however,
Mouths agape at one another
In wide grins that speak of some pleasant surprise.
Next is the mouse,
A poor and plaintive thing,
Puny, pinned, parted from herself with one, two, three whips of the neck.
She is shriveled paws and a stiff tail,
Hardly visible now in the tuft of down that was once a body.
Beside her, on the fifth barb,
Arrives today’s choice cut –
Newly acquainted with Death,
Still pliable and full in form –
The little Butcher,
Reminiscent of some distant Wallachian warlord,
Prunes and prods a mirror image of herself,
Piercing flesh and feathers of grey, black, and white
Onto that final spike.Unaware of the irony
(Or perhaps unconcerned),
She betrays a gentle visage
With a mouth savagely curved.
The carcass holds steady as she rends
Her fellow tradesman asunder
For the sake of lunch.
Swallowing and sated,
She flits to the nearest pine post to admire her work
In chittering contentedness:
A masterfully crafted larder,
Arranged with artistry, finesse,
And (I’m sure) no small amount of pride.
As a shopkeep of bloody wares –
In other words, a butcher –
The loggerhead shrike continues her four-year reign of terror.
She will make it to five
If she watches the sky,
For its many eyes, under little caps of grey,
Are watching her too.