The Hawk
 

The hawk swoops,
A fawn and gold tornado.
An unsuspecting victim
Obtains its last surprise.

Death is swift,
Painless and merciless,
Followed by a feast,
A celebration.

Hunger satisfied,
The killing machine flies,
Up and up,
To enjoy the sunset.

Quick eyes catch
The red ball,
As it sinks with exhaustion,
In the west.

Home flies the hawk,
To the familiar cliff,
The ready nest,
Soft bed of down and bones.

He smells his ancestors,
In the twilight,
Ignores the chill,
And sleeps another hunt.