Spiritual Poetry – Predators and Victims

I am the hawk;

floating, soaring, drifting

high in the winter sky.

I watch many things.


A mouse sunbathes

beside its burrow;

a rabbit rambles;

munching slowly.


Across the hill,

a young chicken struts

before her rooster,

but I will replace her lover.


I dip my wing to the sun

and fall like a dart,

straight to the mark;

rigidly silent, deadly.


The shotgun blast

stops my flight in midthrust,

freezing my universe

in an echo of reality.


The farmer breaks open the gun,

tossing the spent cartridge

upon the crushed sack

of my feathers, entrails, beak and claws.


The farmer swoops quickly

to break the pullet’s neck,

carrying the dangling bird

off to Sunday dinner.


© Copyright 1973

Jim Hetzer

December 18, 1973  Mexico City

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