Wednesday, April 12, 2017

when the pigeon meets the hawk




finches and jays
sparrows and starlings
woodpeckers and flickers
stop in my garden
to dine upon the humble offerings
of sunflower seed, millet and suet

a flock of collared doves
(stupid pigeons, we call them…
loud, awkward and scatter-brained)
pecks at corn scattered
under the maple tree

and the woodland hawks
sail in to dine upon the diners
fierce and arrogant
determined and efficient
sleek and agile
of all the birds my  garden
I admire them most

one misty morning
a twisting cyclone of feathers
tumbles over my shoulder and hits the ground
feet from where I stand
cooper’s hawk, stupid pigeon
in the ancient dance
of predator and prey

“pigeon!” I cry
the hawk, startled
loses its grip
dove flails off to a nearby bush
hawk gives desultory chase
breaks off and sails
to a bare tree
stares at me balefully

why could you not
leave me to my breakfast?
it seems to say
guilty, I reply
I’m sorry…
but my first instinct
is to root for the pigeon


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