gray and tilting

there’d once been
a towering tree
out back
tho not an oak
nothing so sturdy
of girth
upon which
to tie hopeful silk bows
and I’d watched it
for years
gray and tilting
in the warm summer
the boy and I
cast our slingshot stones
into the center
of its teeming deadness
until one weighty evening
it fell
into its own moon-cast shadow
and there it lays– still
some days remembered
I’d written a poem, once
a tall story, perhaps
about this same tree
falling upon me
and night’s coyotes
emerged from the periphery
where they’ve always waited
devouring whatever
remained exposed
aye, I’d been aware
as the beasts pulled at my gristle
snarling faces twisting
as they bickered
and then they left me there
something less than living
tho they’d still been
hungry
never to be sated