That last tatter of the once royal prairie
toggles his sabre wings against the blue
spelling the end, my friend, for the likes of me and you.
He hadn’t looked so scary on his telephone pole
I even said “his feathers are tattered and his chest is dull,”
you might recall, my fellow vole.
But now he has become Shiva,
a mote in the encompassing eye transfixed with deadly intent,
and he has claws enough, I’m afraid old stuff,
for the furry fruit of his ruinous descent.
Run? You say. Run…but where?
Better to hold my paw and sing Kumbaya
and get ready for our time in the air.
We are only the hawk before the hawk
just as this salted grass was the preface to us.
Soon we will see through the veil of his whicker bones
and this final cloud of dust.