Blood and babies spilt all over the ground
when you shot the prairie dog through the stomach
your bow through our second story window.
You shrieked because you did not know it was pregnant.
We tried to collect the squirming offspring in our hands.
There were too many. What could we have done
to save those underdeveloped lives, anyway?
We watched the naked creatures scramble
around the torn mother, exploring the earth
in what few existing moments they had.
It was August, and our faith had not been cracked yet.
I was hypnotized by movement.
The trance was broken when you asked
if we should say a prayer of offering
to the cooper's hawk that nested nearby,
believing she could take this death and transform it
into something with wings. Knowing you feared
this sacrifice could be in vain, I looked up to say yes,
and saw you wiping blood from your arrow.
— Matthew Merson is a high school science teacher in the low-country of South Carolina. This is his first publication.