Hawk’s Blood

 

The band of nested birds cried,
their eyes shouting within
the cold distance of their hearts.
The green blanket of leaves
couldn’t hide their misery.
And their songs went away.

In the shadows of that great wood lurked the
flavor of something powerfully bold.
That a love could last but one moment
and use all the rest to torment my soul.
The hawk came, and the songs went away.

I left my heart perched in the elm that day,
next to that great hawk who had come to prey.
He didn’t stab my life with talons
or swallow my flesh whole with life’s blood.
Instead he stole my song away
and left me for another day

with no one.

This poem was inspired by a patch of woods behind my home, which is usually bustling with life.  Turkeys, deer, even coyotes which I was surprised to find in northern Kentucky.  But the trees and our feeders are always alive with so many different species of birds, their songs absolutely and gently carry the days here.  One day I stepped outside and noticed the feeders were vacant.  The only noise at all was a simple breeze rustling through the trees, which was odd.  But odder still was the rabbit not 20 feet away from me, just sitting there absolutely stiff as if  frozen.  That never happens.  I took a few steps toward him and he still refused to run away.  And it all struck me:  one of our two visiting hawks must be in the area.  And there he was, I spotted him perched up in the tallest tree there on the edge of the woods, staring down at me.  You could have heard a pin drop out there….  I realized my presence was probably giving that little rabbit a heart attack.  Coming to the conclusion that the hawk had not yet seen him (their acute vision relying on movement sometimes) I thought it best that I return to the house.  -Wherein I immediatley crafted new rules regarding the safekeeping of our little chichuahua, Gizzy, who enjoys the freedom he finds at every possible opportunity to rush outside without a leash….  Maybe that’s what Mr. Hawk was waiting for, perhaps he was in the mood for a little Mexican dinner that night!  🙂  Oh, and of course there’s the whole “Woe is me, I’ve lost my lover” thing in there too, but that comes from muscle memory, my hand just used to writing about it…..  I hope you enjoyed my poem, thanks for visiting….

© 2011 John Richter

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