TUSK

This is not culling, this is killing....

TUSK

He ate well,
choosing full branches
on trees,
and long grass up to
his knees.

He bathed in waterholes
and savored the mud.
But an aim short lived
touched pain and drew blood.

Murdered for Greed.

A trunk called loudly
to catch a distant ear;
and his small black eyes
filled with anxious fear.

Silenced without Guilt

Then dropped, - knees first -
into the dust.
Saw his mind spin, and heard
the last crack
of a single
Tusk

L J Harris