It was a yellow-spotted frog
Skin bedecked in splashes of black
In the middle of the road
It’s guts spilled out.
Boys played at their game
shouting, sulking, rejoicing on the road
A pigeon’s wing, torn, lay toward the side.
It matters not how one lives
Each soul is a temporary blemish
whether unnoticeable or remarkable
upon the face of the earth.
The crow, its neck bent
A rat, a clump of nuts by its side
Crushed, its long tail laid out behind it
Heading to its nest, probably
The Universe doesn’t notice.


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