That they continue stripping tiny leaves
from the birches is not the mystery, but rather
who in this two-finch town along the Rogue
would only maim them, expertly, with arrows.
This is what an older generation might call
soft news. There is a creature, and there is
a creature’s suffering. They’re hard to distinguish.
It might have been bad aim, taken out of season.
You never hear the end of stories like these.