A wooded walk–
not one just pulled
from daily stock–
all seemed so still. . .

until I heard a muffled ruffle. . .

and looking up,
I saw
the freshly landed
feathers settle
on the wings
of an overlording,
staring hawk.

No need for cameras
or other modern gadgets of recording. . .

in cautious awe,
I pass right under,
but ever mindful
of this eyeful warning–

kind of a stimulating way
to start my morning.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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