All of the buffalo in the west are dead

we shot them down with crank-guns and cannons

left them to stare blankly into the prarie skies

left them to stink and to shit their last shit

completely unaware

innumerable occasions

and we’d do it all over again

All of the goats of the Galapagos Islands are dead

we shot them down with automatic assault rifles

and when we couldn’t find the goats that fled

from the deafening, syncopated, pulse, of choppers

we tied trackers around a chosen few

the Judas goats

whose habits led us back to the herd in hiding

we followed them into the brush

and mowed them down with lawnmowers

so that the islands’ original inhabitants

could resume their peaceful lives as usual

All of the Irish Elk are dead

our ancestors threw spears and stones

each time one of them strayed from the pack

to draw water from a stream

they fed their wives and children

until every last one was gone

and you still somehow have some doubt

as to whether or not it will happen again.