That hawk came back

like a thunder clap,

a lightning flash,

like a heart attack.

And the birds I feed

and the voles and squirrels

scavenging scattered seed and suet

on the grass beneath the feeders

won’t come back for a while now.

They’re trying to recover their feeding rhythms

while quaking in the trees

and shaking in the bushes,

scouting out their feeding ground,

weighing their need to feed

against their fright.

That hawk,

a Sharp Shinned Hawk,

I think,

has been here once before.

But that time he merely perched

on a shepherds crook,

like part of the scenery ,

like that useless plastic owl

we hitched to our sailboats bow

to keep the shitting gulls away,

a by-stander

a non-participant

in Natures perpetual blood-sheen

of gore and bone

hanging over chickadees, humming-birds,

finch and doves,

all my ffriendly dinners

in my outdoor restaurant.

Today, however,

that hawk was hungry,

a predator not a set-piece.

And the peace he shattered

will not be easily glued.

But I’ve grown philosophical

feeding birds for my pleasure,

watching at my leisure.

It’s no wonder they lite upon

a Drool Yankee Feeder

or a suet brick

for just a quick second or three.

The living have learned that trick.

For but a little longer

is all it takes to go from being the guest

to being the feast,

eviserated in a spurt of blood and feathers.

They know they are but a last heartbeat away

from eating and being eaten

in this pleasant Eden

I’ve created

in my peace filled garden

sanctuary.