Poor, Poor Hawk
Poor, poor hawk, vicious hawk,
Tan terror of the sky,
You look a sleeping, peaceful dove
In brown leaves where you lie.
Poor, poor hawk, mortal hawk,
What rank indignity!
A bumbling blue jay’s fluttered by
And plucked out your keen eye.
Poor, poor hawk, little hawk
I never saw you fly.
In fact, we never would have met
Except you had to die.
Poor, poor hawk, lifeless hawk,
I’ll dig a grave, then I
Will write a verse about your death
And end it with a sigh.
Yes, this is a real picture of a dead hawk that I found in the yard. It was a tiny thing, barely the length of my hand except for its tail feathers. I did not see it die, but I suspect it was pursuing birds from my bird feeder and either struck a tree limb or the dog pen fence. Clearly, its neck was broken. I could detect no other injuries. I certainly would not want this hawk using my feeder for its own deathtrap or hawk restaurant, but it still saddened me to find this noble and beautiful creature lying dead in my yard.
Anyway, I was working on another poem when it struck me what I wanted to say about the poor little hawk, and it took me---I don't know--maybe fifteen minutes to type the poem. What you have above is the first draft. I have not changed a word. ENJOY!