Wild Pig Rummaging
By Natalie Elschlager
Before mellow hues of pink illuminate the morning sky,
they dig.
Low grunts permeate the field behind Mr. Greene’s suburban dwelling.
Curious hogs.
One trots lightly towards a growth of palms,
rubbing bristly fur against the bark.
There’s satisfaction in this,
as the hairy tip of its tail curls with delight.
The others root about relentlessly,
hooves and thick shoulders rummaging for grub.
Before excavation, before building, before Irma,
these rituals performed before dawn were isolated to the wetlands.
Nowhere is remote anymore.
The unassuming stock of a rifle takes aim.
Feral swine.
Pop.
Squeal.
They migrate once more.
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