Hunting

The Cooper’s hawk stalking my back yard struck
at early light, leaving silky gray and white feathers,
downy cling to the deck railing.
How smart to pounce on prey,
while I dreamed dreams I don’t remember
and couldn’t protect the slow-blinking dove
whose monogamy stirs me now.
Is that coo your mate calling for you?

Don’t get me wrong. Hawks are fine, elsewhere,
in the neighbor’s maple seven doors down or
a mile away, diminishing destructive rodents or
anywhere else than in my willow watching,
hawk-eyed, the wrens and warblers.

And, who is that man who (delightedly) tells the story
of a hawk chasing a wren who hid behind his leg
which he moved so the hawk could dine?
That breaking of trust, but why? A moment
of god-like omnipotence? But---why?

And those men who hunt diving ducks
they won’t eat, leaving behind
once sweet-faced waders, 
silky feathered bodies,
carcasses, call it sport
so unsporting. How
did ceasing a beating heart 
become a leisure activity?

I think we could learn 
much from hawks
and doves 
and ducks,
someday.

©Sascha Darlington