by James Sands
Looking back now, we saw the signs; we did;
one day a speck, just a tiny dot hovering high
a hint of something coming on the wind
something wicked drifting close;
it vanished, and we forgot
but then it came again
and sometime later
once more, again;
but we were made complacent
by the planting, and our living, and the past,
and the white clouds were oh so pretty
as they passed,
and the sky was blue, the brightest blue,
but the sky told lies;
little red lies repeated in shadows and shade
became truth on a Sunday morning,
on a day of rest when death
came on the wings of an impostor
preaching lies about heaven in a self-styled service
we heard first in the screams of a dying brown hen, and
next, in a rooster’s mad crows pulling the remaining flock in;
we rushed from our comfort to her defense,
saw a hawk ripping feathers out from her back;
beating wings, tearing talons, rending beak
destroying her freedom, all working for death;
the desperate hen twisting to face the hawk
eyes closing, beak striking, striking
futilely striking, striking, striking
at a black-clawed leg held just out of reach
until the lady’s screams forced the hawk to release
she held her darling out to me
in shock and anguish, in disbelief
in falling tears, some guilt, more grief;
I gave my bare arm as a final perch;
the dying hen,
lungs exposed in her deeply torn back,
dug her feet into my flesh;
she stood stiffly, nobly in her misery,
trembling; but swaying only slightly,
clinging to life with the grip of her death
as drops of blood fell to the ground
like tiny red hats;
the ending,
they left it to me.
photo credit: Matt Bango, Unsplash