Author: Mallory Currie
“…Where the wolves are killed off, the foxes increase.” – The Confidence-Man by Herman Melville
And the sheep that have
That predisposed instinct
Ingrained in their wool
To fear that which is different
No longer watch for wolves
But turn on each other,
Try suspiciously to glimpse
The true character in
The woolen coats of others,
And pay no mind or heed
To the sly foxes that come
In the night, picking them off
Until there aren’t even
Black sheep left.
And the chickens now no
Longer band together,
No longer rely on
The rooster’s warning call,
But they ignore how those
Neighboring hens subtly –
Suddenly – disappear
Not wondering at all
Where they have gone to in
The night, not wondering
If they’ll come back, because
They know that they will not;
Until there were no more
Chickens left to wonder
Or know at all.
And the geese who expect
A snake in the grass are
Ill prepared for their eggs
To be plucked by soft mouths,
And their ears are untrained
For soft-footed small paws;
So their hearts are broken
By the loss of an entire
Generation, and they become
Obsessed with their own
Woes and grief until
There are no geese
Left to mourn.
And the cows do not care
If other animals
Suffer and disappear,
Because that means their calves
Are safe for now;
So the cows prosper and
Conveniently ignore
The plight of the others
And continue to prosper
Until the foxes grow hungry
Again, and then the cows
Suffer the same fate as the others.
And for all the pigs’ wit –
Supposed cleverness –
And intelligence they
Offer no advice or
Aid claiming that those that
Cannot protect themselves
Deserve what comes to them
As sacrifice is a
Necessary evil
For the rest of the farm
To thrive and survive
Though all that is left
Of the farm now are pigs until
The wily foxes grow hungry again.
And the single old mule in
His frank obstinate disbelief
Neglects his appointed
Duty and does nothing
Because if the wolves are gone,
There are no threats to handle,
No fox has ever dared
Or been capable of
Stealing the young of a
Mule – no matter if there are
No young of the mule –
So how can the others
Be affected since
It is not a burden
Shared by all of the farm?
And the distant farmer
Who made the farm
In His likeliness
And stepped back
To merely observe
His creation in motion
Now sees the farm
Overrun by foxes
That grew fat and strong
On first mutton,
Then poultry and fowl,
Then beef and pork,
And then tear the mule
Down and drink his blood
Until there is nothing left
But the self-acclaimed
‘Pure’ race of cruel foxes
Tearing each other apart.