Vivid, Livid, Breathing Ground

_ moved closer to the ground. A wounded bird had fallen on a pile of dirt. Black legs rose from below and tore at its feathers. Rotten nails clipped the wings off the creature. The fowl squealed one last time before falling  into darkness. The dark limbs followed the bird’s descent. I placed my ear against the soil and heard the heat of battle _

 

– F  H Hakansson

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