I squeeze the tick between my fingers—
blood stains the soft belly on my dog’s tender
skin. It spreads across her open sore
like a scarlet flower blooming beneath
the sun. Below my nails, deep down
to the quick, a tiny predator lies pulled
to bits. Inhumane in my removal, the savage
that I am, remnants of the unwanted trespasser
linger like an echo from far beyond, a distant
reminder, all creatures, great and small,
are always feeding off others for the good
or bad, for the need or want, nothing will
ever be truer than this. And if I stop to listen,
take a silent pause of gratitude in the midst
of my own survival, I can almost hear the echo
after the trauma of one over another, feel
the wind exhale in sympathy—a whispering
rejoice in the celebration of victory or mourning
of a loss, the universe humming its
ongoing chant as my dog licks my finger,
and I apply salve on her wound.
Grey Sparrow Journal 