Outside my window

weasels hunting; quick as light

through tunnelled banks and holes

and water. Murderous precision

so fast.

Just yesterday I discovered voles

digging in Spring sunshine, settling in

around the little pond

that was boiling with cavorting amphibia.

But today is changed, for beyond the road

woodsmen are clear felling,

driving predators and prey

to somewhere new. The latter exposed

pursued, killed and eaten,

brains sucked from smashed skulls.

It is the weasel way.

Later, the frogs will return

to quiet water

and check who has survived.

This time though, they were not targets.


For weasels, no. . .

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