As I lay in bed last night
listening to a fox kill a toad,
knowing I could have stopped its screams
I remained there lazily warm
drifting toward my dreams.
This morning I tossed its severed torso
onto the compost heap.
I shoveled it under leaves feigning regret,
but truthfully its spilled gut sickened me.
I sleep through most nights soundly,
though from some other world I hear disembodied howls.
In the morning I read the sports pages first
whilst shuffling headline-horrors beneath junk mail.