shrike

by Anna Molenaar

Otherwise known as butcherbird,

he impales grasshoppers, small mice, even other songbirds

onto rusted barbed wire.

Crucified in neat rows 

on pasture fences,

they twitch towards the dying light.

To see him preening on a willow branch

in the early morning

you wouldn’t suspect a thing,

for he is lithe and light

enough to rival any finch or wren 

crying out a gentle word at dawn.

But when he comes back to the fencepost

bloodied by sunset,

and cleans the dried viscera 

from his feathers,

you wonder how you didn’t notice

the way his eyes,

hooded and mischievous,

gave it all away.

Anna Molenaar is a writer of poetry and prose concerned with nature, humanity, and the messes that occur when the two mix. Her work appears or will appear in The Nassau Review, The Tiger Moth Review, and The Columbia Review among others. She lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, where she received her MFA from Hamline University. She works as a preschool teacher and teaches writing courses at the Loft Literary Center.