Monday Poem

Hawks

East or west down the trail in fog
the bark of a distant dog

a meadow rolls off in that cloak
a cleft in its breast of a brook

deciduous trees to the north
a hawk in the fifth or the forth

scans for the twitch of a meal
not a stitch of remorse will it feel

as it falls on its prey like a bomb
with finesse and genetic aplomb

there are such people who prey
on an earth god created this way

by Jim Culleny; July 16,2009

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