I hate waste so I’d hang the entrails along the fence - viscera etcetera. It served two purposes: clean disposal and the luring in of carrion, the predators.
Economical.

The bones would be set amongst the glowing charcoals in the grate after the dog had gnawed out the marrow. In the morning the grey husks of limb and carcass could be ground to powdery ash and dusted amongst the brassicas, poured like flour out of a brown poke onto the dull, wet sod I call my garden.

Deft martens and other sly quadrupeds would unhook the bits of fat and lung, unfasten blued-eyed cockerels heads that would never crow this side of Christendom again. And this would be done a'tween darkening and dusk, behind my fat back and in front of John who came up with the tide and never once saw the furry beasts feasting on the poultry bits stuck to the spines of the barbed wire fence on my quarter.

Even on nights such as these: Northern lights dancing green - azure shimmering in a midnight February sky. Stars - holes poked in a black cloak and the horizon curved - visible. Trees straggling against the hill in scratchy silouhette. Things that move; fly, creep are seen by others out and about on this reckless run. But I see none other than John walking the lower lea with his heavy priest carved from a stag’s antler, hollowed out and filled with lead, so that its thwack puts dead instantaneously the receiver of its brutal kiss. In the morning he will lay the silver meat on the best platter and place it in the pantry on the cold shelf after he’s gralloched it and pegged its inners on the spines of fence to feed the buzzards and crows, the owl - which will boak up the bones into neat parcels. Parcels that come wrapped in fur, feathers, hairs and sometimes down - which makes me sad to see; sad to see the duckling’s coat amongst the debris on the field’s floor.

The kits are keening on this still night. I hear their whelps, their sightless squeaks from down in the cosy of the dry stane dyke. They’ll be curled about leaves, moss and bracken fronds ginger. Dark brown amongst the rust. New hearts beating in their dark lair as they wait for blood warm food and their Mother’s milk.

The grass is iced white as are the trees, as pretty as etched glass. I want to study it at leisure, explore the depth of acid reach, touch the satin bloom of frosted story but I hear the wires creak, hear entrails being tugged from their housing. I turn and watch the bold Mother, teats swollen against sharp metal spikes, pink paws pulling twists of meat and cartilage onto the shadowed floor.

John is stood next to me now, his priest poised - the weight balanced in his palm, the white moon picking out the indentations of the antler decider. I lay my hand on his arm, still the killing wield that seemed already hesitant, reluctant, and we watch silently the mother gathering up her brood’s black clotted supper.