Carrion eaters circle
hawk’s epicentre;
Talons in fresh kill.

Winter’s best for teaching.

My shadow slips, ripples over rough ground.
Leaps, in a single bound to roof top,
then scrabbles, up trunk, settling beneath me
on a chosen branch, grey, leafless, waving a greeting
as I light — then stilling. As do I.

They scatter, like so many pins.
Struck by instinct, reflex, flock-think,
sheltering (in vain) in Winter-naked Bittersweet;
dried and withered fruit, red-brown and rotting,
all that remains of Summer’s sanctuary.

Movement becomes my friend.
They twitch and flutter back, reassured by numbers, easy grain;
light’s trick, sun’s flicker gone now from consciousness.
But what’s to see? Sharp, gold-rimmed eye
– if they’d dare look up. I wink (back) and watch.

Sun curtained, I hunch, arch, and slide, chute-straight.
Tethered by taut focus to a single one,
chosen to receive my freeing gift.
Awareness, short-lived, explodes.
And all is still — again.

Do you judge? They don’t.

Carrion eaters circle
hawk’s epicentre;
Talons in fresh kill.