Grizzly things do happen in one’s back yard.

Some three weeks ago, it was the two-inch mid-section of still-living snake flesh, cleanly segmented as though with a chopping knife. The tube of skin rested on the jutting root of an oak, cleaned out and quivering, perhaps fresh-fallen from the beak or talons of a kite or hawk. It was beautiful—glistening blue on one side, pale on the underside—and utterly unnerving.

This evening, I watched a mockingbird out the window. It was pecking and dropping its food on the concrete over and over—what looked to be a compact insect. I couldn’t understand why the bird was having trouble, and why the insect was still alive after so much abuse.

Later I walked that way, and saw ants at the feast of what remained: a baby armadillo’s head with pointed snout, rubbery scaled armor like a collar, cleaned out through the neck. The head and neck were tough (though not hardened) even at such a young age.

Not meanness, just everyday ordinary survival or death in the wild. The birds and ants with happy bellies. The reptile and mammal with the short straws this time.