Bit by bit.

They slip.

Two little ones.

One on each hip.

She hoists them up.

Starts running again.

The pack rears up.


“Wait” the first hunter commands.

He counts.

Gives her a lead.

The pack chomps at the bit.

He commands them to stay.

He unclasps their leash.

“Now” he says.

The pack gives chase.

She picks up her pace.

The pack bays.

Closes the distance.

Bit by bit.

They slip.

One on each hip.

Her legs collapse under their weight.

She gathers them up.

Brings them in close.

Wipes their eyes.

Cleans off their faces.

Tells them “It is…”


Throws out her arms.


The pack has teeth.

The pack has claws.

She shields them with love.

Sometimes love is…

The pack returns.

The hunters continue their cleanse of the land.

Capture, corral all who they can.

March them for miles.

One single file.



Push them up to the rim.

Heels hang over.

Some fight back.

Some surrender.

Some stand tall.

All of them fall into the crater.

Roll down its sides.

Bit by bit.

Piles rise.

Forests fires light the long night.

Come morning burn out.


The hunters leave.

Walk away.

Avoid all eye contact.

Go their separate ways.

Bodies bloat.

Maggots breed.

In the sky there are circles.

Flesh decays.

Falls away.

Bones bleach.

Dry out.

Grow brittle.

Bit by bit.

Piles settle.

No monument.

No museum.

No one talks.

It is up to him to remember.

Meet who he was.

Mourn what was lost.

Set up a tripod.


Take new measurements.

Calculate boundaries.

Stake out a claim.

Retake his existence.

Bit by bit.

He hoists himself up.

Exits the mist.

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