The Tiny Perfect Form

I almost stepped on it
the tiny perfect form
quiet on the forest path
unlike its normal state
a perpetual motion machine
with voracious appetite
to assuage metabolic hunger
this, nature's dynamo.

Dead. A peace in its
unaccustomed quietude.
The grey fur sleeking its
fat little body, not yet
cold and hard
tiny legs and paws
upsticking, comically.

But there is no cause
for humour in this cessation.
Sharp snout pointing
to the dense forest
siding the path
and predator's teeth visible
in its frozen mouth.

Sad to look on it
glad not to have stepped
on it and wonder why no
sexton beetle or carrion-eating
bird has not yet carried it away.
Wonder whether it was
merely old age that did.