A lonely hawk perused its lot,
wings arched against the breeze.
The vole saw just a tiny dot
He hovered with such ease.
He never tired of this sensation,
sandwiched between cloud and ground.
The purpose filled his contemplation,
to take the quarry, without sound.
The keenest eyes had found their mark
But something had to give.
The hawk had lost the urge to kill
But not the will to live.
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Comments about this poem (Prey! by Dan Reynolds )
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