By Paula Bonnell
The roof pigeon next door flew –
wings clapping - into a tree
(something I’d never before seen it
do, in all my morning stretches
on the deck) Then –
Arriving suddenly on the roosting
corner that the pigeon had left,
pulling its wings in over its back
with a sullen dignity,
Looking intently over at me, with
an ancient, fierce face
Thickly beaked - (It must be
a hawk – )
buff-colored - streaky marks
in broken lines down its chest
Playing the Bruiser to the
pigeon’s Small Boy – till -
stepping and turning, it pushed off -
heading for the tree.
With its cloaky arms spread,
and its feathered fingers combing
air, it rose over the tree
and flew south, with the hill dropping away
beneath it, before veering -
its pale underbody and dark tail
distinct against a light sky.
Behind it, above it, hectoring toward
its back came the small form
of a songbird
as the hawk banked, laboriously
Exit, pursued by a small bird.
Copyright © 2015 by Paula Bonnell.