The hawk drops through air like a stone,
dives, clutches, and plucks his prey
out of the feeder at break of day,
and tows it aloft to his aerie home.
The man stoops with stiffened knees
for something grey as his thinning hair:
a flight of feathers fell from the air,
the innocent victim no longer seen.
The mourning dove has ceased to cry,
torn from its mate by a savage act—
a needed evil, the hawk’s attack.
For hawk to live, the dove must die.
The man stares at his bags of seed,
the food more cruelty now than love.
And what becomes of finches and doves—
is it raptor or prey that he’s to feed?
The balance of life insists that he choose
the one of God’s creatures with greatest need.
And as he weighs which fowl to feed,
he questions his license to judge who loses.
Weary now, and torn … he’s found
that the dull weight of intended good
can tip the scale more than it should.
Another feather drifts to the ground.
#hawk #raptor #poetry #predator