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Poetry Pleases: Hawk

John Waddington-Feather's poem is as noble and natural as the bird it concerns.

The hawk hangs by an unseen thread,
his instinct swift and clean.
There is no fuss, no bloody wrangling
which drives him down
his silent curve of death.
He kills with grace, seizing his moment
on the wing, hovering
ever on the edge of life
in laws precise, exact,
timed from the past till now.
He is no butcher
but culls gross surfeit,
balancing life with death,
killing no necessity alone.
Hawk, be man's mentor!


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