the hawk

To see the hawk, you must be willing
to see small birds die.
Cooper’s hawks nest close
but the magnolia and the hedge
are awash in chirps and tweets
of budgies, chickadees, sparrow,
with an occasional cardinal
or robin redbreast.
(Plus, squirrels, but not faux-flying kind,
just daredevils,
jump branch to roof trough and back
and foraging seeds the birds scatter.)
Even saw a woodpecker
dedicated to his craft
who insisted on tapping plastic
before gathering seed.
The hawk is a late comer,
the feeder has been there for years.
I feel a regret, but acknowledge
I did not set this play in motion.
Sitting on the porch long enough
for the cat to disprove the existence of god
(at least my place as one...)
and watch our small garden of Eden.
I encourage the little birds, fill the feeder,
dawn and evening they cluster,
but sometimes, mid-afternoon,
a sudden flash, manic twitter,
small birds scatter, loose feathers drift down
and there isn’t even blood on the ground
as nature plays out.