Armed with my hunting knife I paint a pretty picture in the grass: tawny brown fur, dappled with white, beside which seem to spill inkwells of red. Pale bones. Beige teeth. Black gums. Steaming innards slide from the gut; intestinal silver in the light.
This is my art; the young stag, rutting, rotting where it fell. It is all art; the streets our human galleries where we run, jump, pretend to play at life before succumbing to the vast canvas of the earth, growing soft, syrupy, making our own small masterpieces with the worms and the beetles in the dirt.