A perfect day, the brightest morn,

Sun kissing leaf and tree;

A bird afar seems all forlorn

What can the matter be?


Then a movement on the grass

Brings home the reason why;

A Sparrowhawk has made its pass

And a meal has had to die.


A cruel beak; fierce callous eye,

Surveying all around;

Whilst rending flesh and feather

Upon the frosty ground.


That look of arrogance and power

To fascinate and chill;

Where’er the place, when’er the hour,

She dominates to kill.


The yellow roundrel of her eye

Spots me in my stance;

I read the thought; to eat or fly

Daring me to advance.


Hesitation shows for just a blip.

Returning to flesh and bone;

Talons hold fast for beak to rip

Only feathers remain alone.


The deed is done a need fulfilled

She rises to a tree;

A type of love for what she killed,

Sustains; as others flee.


Monty Alexander 4.1.03


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