Raptors

imagePhoto by Joseph Hesch

Hawk dropped by for breakfast this morning.
I had my Saturday pancakes. He had chipmunk.
I finished mine before he took off with his.
A to-go order of striped rodent, sticky too,
but not with syrup. Why does he looked so angry?
He can sit there at rest like some boulevardier
watching the groundlings circle his table.
No critter, including this one, would dare interrupt
his wriggling repast, lest we become a second course.
I don’t soar much anymore, the limited spring
of human flight now just memory, fallen away
like the grey hairs I find on my pillow each morning.
I can only spread my wings when I sit here,
as I drop with talons sharp on memory, on fantasy,
on fuzzy imagination, and carry them to my nest
to try feeding ever-unseen, hopefully open mouths.

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