The corpse showed up yesterday. It laid on the side of the black path man often traveled on. I perched myself on a tree. It had become a habit of mine to study the food I consumed.
The rabbit had no look of embarrassment over its raw exposure to the rest of us. Its head was as flat as the ground it lay upon, oozing with crimson and mixed with chunks the color of delicate pink wildflowers in spring that soaked the grass. Its eyes were that of black pebbles that were tossed to the side while the body remained somewhat as it was before. The beetles had already gotten to it, entering through the neck and eating away at the mush of the insides.
The crows came next. They picked at the fur, tearing it away bit by bit. Their young would find comfort in the rabbit’s fading warmth. The rabbit's flesh lay underneath, bloated and dull in color. I flew down toward it, making way between my fellow birds. My stomach pained me with its aching demands. I gave in and tore into the carcass. I ate in small portions, savering the sensation of the roughness of meat on top of my tongue, drizzled with the sweetness of the rabbit’s blood that crept down my throat.
The next day, the body was split open. Ants carried bits of the rabbit’s stomach to their mound, maggots made their home between the muscles, and I flew down to take my share, ripping off the outer skin that was left. It stretched away from the body, snapping with a chomp from my beak.
Weeks passed and every day, I made sure to take my fair share. In the process, the carcass disappeared little by little. The skeleton of the rabbit was all that was apparent, lightly dusted with dirt, it had almost become one with its surroundings - until nothing was left and all that remained was the stain of what once was.