Gorehound

Cross handle

Sharpened hook

Dragging flesh

He grunts as he arrives

Resting hand against Ash tree

Swings wound rope

Up and over limb

Dragging slowly

But surely

Carcass raises

Flies swarm

Irritated at shifting

Once in position

The man ties down to the trunk

Wind howls between the trees

Something else joins in howling

He eyes the distance about him

Adjusting the hook in his hand

The sun is still up

He had time to get home