One Dead Hare

It’s a fine aim of the Jains,
To test, to prove, to make good
On a sworn vow not to kill—

As if one could or could not
Choose to spare life in this world.
It’s a test, at least. They try.

There’s a dead hare in this road,
Hit by a car, food for crows.
The hare ran out in the dark,

And crunched in a tire. Was it
Chased out? Was it in a chase?
A lot of hares here are sick

With a new bug on the rounds,
Which makes each live one more rare,
Puts more stock in one dead hare,

Though no one will mourn this one,
Save us, the words in this poem.
Pets have died that strayed too far,

Now that there are so few hares.
There are a lot of things need
To eat at night still out there.

A half-starved fox has sharp teeth.
There’s not one life life won’t eat,
As soon as it gets the chance.

The Jains, too, have carved their niche.
As much as they’ve ruled out—gnats
And roots—some things they’ve ruled in,

You know, as they live and breathe.
What the crows don’t eat for them—
And the flies, the ants, the germs—

Will end up in ground or air,
Which is the realm of the roots
And leaves you thought lived on air.