Wings thrust out into the wicked air.
Eyes fixed on the prize
of what shall become dinner
like the crosshairs of a rifle.
The cool, afternoon gust pushes against
brown finger of flight.
Soaring amongst the heavens.
Weaving in, out, and then in
between the flowing white pillows of the atmosphere.
Sharp, flesh ripping claws of life and death
dangle from the powerful body of this talon.
Diving, dashing, swallowing the air
the hawk tears through the clouds
nails protrude from his feet,
digging through the clouds
nails protrude from his feet,
digging through muscle.
Squirming and wrenching away
from the daggers of death,
impossible.
The time has come.
Life slips away
for one and continues for another.