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. . .