Morning light sifted through the barn slats,
a breeze nudging hay into lazy clumps.
Farmer Bland arrived, bucket sloshing,
his boots making dull, deliberate sounds.
Piggy eyed him with a casual regard,
steam curling from his breath like secrets,
his snout twitching at the sour perfume
of swill waiting to be savored or discarded.
But something shifted—an invisible snap,
like a wire pulled too tight for too long.
A roar rose, more engine than animal,
and Farmer Bland fell—gravity, betrayal,
meeting the ground with a startled gasp.
Piggy loomed, thoughts sharper now,
chewing on concepts as much as flesh.
Piece by piece, his world rearranged,
until Bland was no more than silence.
Later, licking the tang from his mouth,
Piggy considered the symmetry of fate.
I feared him, he confessed to no one,
so I chose to be the knife first.