Patient, are his long shadows,
spreading like fingers,
resisting the sun.
Until,….
the hunt begins.
Blind are his prey.
That scuttle below,
these Hawks on the hill.
Silent dark sentinels,
staring omnisciently,
blotting out the sun.
Yet,
I and a few souls see them,
we watch
and inevitably wait.
Their gaze,
is a searing burn,
their hungry caw,
soon shivers my soul.
The hour comes,
like a thief,
filling blue sky.
with small black crosses,
swirling above…
Their lethargic prey,
amble nose to ground,
gorging full bellies,
distracted and unaware,
to what plummets above.
Talons spread,
barely whistling,
through the cool, rush of wind.
Immediately crushing,
then piercing,
the hunted.
The quick kill,
is painless,
like a hot knife,
through warm butter.
Yet,
I see their precision,
an exquisite scalpel to the tumor,
and watch,
wide-eyed,
their kill.
Looking up at me,
with satisfied gazes,
that scorch my skin.
Contentment proceeds,
with a quiet laugh,
as my soul takes notice.
The Hawk,
arises with severed flesh,
leaving just a scar,
to tighten skin,
to widen pores,
and pull upon senses.
The hunted are left,
miraculously healed,
that is,
until tomorrow…
Dreams begin,
awakening the hunted,
to a newer normal,
a different reality,
a new way to forage.
For tomorrow transforms,
through stretched skin,
making the hunted,
a little less blind,
and a bit less deaf.
Blessed are the hunted.
By Chris Clody
3/16/18
Christopher Clody 