Today,

a sharp shinned hawk,

silver gray,

perched on a blue ceramic bird bath,

waiting for prey.

Smug in his patience.

Owning his perchance for slaughter.

The smaller birds and squirrels

wise enough to hide among the shrubs and beneath the bushes

while the hawk hunted.

But when he spied my movement from house to porch,

he lifted like a cloud,

rose to a pine branch to perch in hungry, angry wait.

Staring at me,

insulted by my interference in his sanguine schemes.

Then a suicidal Thrasher,

bold enough to risk a furtive search for seed,

landed in the pine straw.

I know he knew the hawk

was there.

And I know the hawk saw him.

But scaled against my presence, then,

watching him, daring,

he left the thrasher be!

Flew off in an angry screech and let the Thrasher see!

He might return in some circling flight.

And if that Thrasher’s fool enough again

to try his luck,

I hope the hawk is slow that day,

or the Thrasher’s fortunate to duck.

But twice?

I doubt it.