Scrub land, south of AJB Ranch

by Don Thompson

Was it crows in their black
soutanes, relentless Jesuits,
or was it random night prowlers
that picked the fur to pieces,
bit by bit,
and scattered the rabbit’s carcass
across half an acre?

Or was it the finger of God
sorting through flesh and bone
to find something numinous,
something that belongs only to Him?