Sharp-shinned Hawk
She surveys her empire
from a tall tree, then steps
into space, plunging her
body’s weight downwards,
diving into fragile air.
A feathered arrow,
she makes contact, feet first,
and pins the unsuspecting robin
to the ground. His shrill shriek
emerges from a beak
that shreds failing life.
The hawk’s claws clench.
Her victim weakens.
His eyes glaze over.
One final spasm,
a last quick twitch,
the robin is gone.
One wing drags, flaps weakly,
borne skywards in the hawk’s
triumphant claws.
rogermoorepoet 
Wow! Such imagery. I love it. But what I don’t love at the moment is the cold, icy rain that is invading my personal space with air that feels like icicles. I think I’ll have to make a pot of soup!
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Soup is good. M grandfather got through the trenches in WWI, thanks to soup. I have several family recipes. Make a lot. Lass for 3 or 4 days. Keeps getting better. You know that.
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Oh yes. Everything tastes better the second day and continues to improve — unless I make too much and it begins to get green fuzzies on the top. Fortunately there is a little bit of space in my free
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Ah yes, the Martian invasion. Must be avoided.
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