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I sit and purvey from my perch on high,
spying the horizon and the rising tide.
I'm here on my branch for a chance to rest
before life's journey comes to a close.
You'd suppose I could see as clearly from the sky,
but my eyes aren't what they used to be.
Sometimes I can see in the finest detail
without fail; sometimes the tiniest things
escape me. So here I will stand to scan
what nature has to offer in my hit and miss
world. Every bird of prey has its day.
It appears mine is a Wednesday.
I'll be watching, and if you're not careful,
I'll be snatching you up in my talons.

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2021


  1. They Watch You Like a Hawk
    Cult Children

    They are always watching
    The innermost workings of your mind
    Pierced by prying carnivorous eyes

    Privacy is earned they say and
    Open the door wide to the night and the wild
    They are always watching

    Terror and love create a weird color
    On your skin and the cold floor bares witness to
    The innermost workings of your mind

    Do you feel the sharpness of that glance
    Feel it crawling on your skin and the swollen veins
    Pierced by prying carnivorous eyes

    (I think this form is called Cascade? Maybe?)

  2. Lens

    I comb through data
    to find you in South Africa
    at the Kruger National Park
    where you’re at home with
    all five big game species
    eyeing lions and leopards
    rhinos elephants and buffalo

    your indisputably royal lineage
    evolving from mysterious archaeopteryx
    even as your kin the great bald eagle
    soars through blue Kansas skies
    its path traversing crosshatched cropland
    glancing off the back of horse and cow
    skittering sheep and goats the idle chicken

    both of you using your binocular vision
    to drop and dive in search of prey
    faster than I’ve ever driven
    as you sate hunger and feed your young
    occasionally pausing to sit an acacia tree
    to let a different lens capture your regal beauty.

  3. The Hunter

    It sits high above the ground, patiently
    Scanning its hunting grounds that are my
    Looking for unaware birds at the feeder or
    munching on clover. The crows call a warning and all
    to safety in trees, under shrubs until the majestic hawk flies


  4. Breakfast

    Sitting quietly in the living room,
    sipping my morning coffee,
    deciding between poetry and
    the Times crossword.
    Suddenly a loud thump,
    from the kitchen,
    all too familiar.
    It can only mean one thing:
    a broken window or
    a broken neck.
    A quick dash and glance,
    no shattered glass.
    A slanted peek at the patio,
    no broken bird.
    No birds at the feeder,
    and none on the fence
    Well, one, a cooper’s hawk,
    a big one, smiling that smile
    through its eyes.
    Missed that one,
    it seems to say.
    Next time.
    Oh, and thanks for the feeders,
    it blinks.
    I’m always hungry.

  5. Do the people down below even know
    What a miracle this world really is
    If only they could see it from my perspective
    Maybe they’d appreciate its beauty
    Its awesomeness amidst its fragility
    If only they could see the things that I see
    They’d realize we’re not here by mistake
    And that we’re all part of a bigger plan


    I usually hunt on the African veldt,
    my shoulders resembling a brace of obsidians;
    but a heck of a storm came by and dealt
    me flamingo fare, and strange Floridians.

  7. The Hawk

    The hawk is neither cruel nor mean.
    Its beak is hooked, its eyes are keen.
    Its taloned feet are designed to kill.
    But its hunting is not for thrill.
    A bird of prey does what it’s designed to do.
    It keeps nature’s balance all the year through.

  8. Walt, I’ve much to ponder after reading your poem. Now I’ll wonder about the age of all the hawks I see and what they’re thinking beyond their next meal! Superb!!

  9. I See You

    Trick is to have
    perfect balance
    on any knobby branch
    you may come upon. My
    feet cling when I am
    not on the wing. Eyes
    see wide, though I can
    be so high up, you may
    not see me from down
    on the ground. Clouds
    of color swirl around me,
    a vista of pure beauty.

  10. My Eye
    I peer
    I spy
    I capture any movement with my eye.
    I frame a rodent’s fate by instinct
    end a life without remorse
    of course
    without an ounce of hate
    or bitterness within my talons gripped.
    It is but pure thought,
    fur by my beak ripped,
    lifted, carried upward
    to a lofty basket nest of sticks
    twine, plastic, vine I’ve
    regarded as sufficient for a nest,
    where rest my little eyas,
    gaping craws wide open,
    peeps to grow to screeches
    if enough squirrels, hares,
    mice in fields or trees
    below me move,
    and I, without thought or malice,
    silently descend.
    I peer,
    I spy,
    I capture any movement with my eye.

    (“eyas” is another word for baby hawks)
    © Damon Dean, 2021

  11. The Eyes of the Lord Run To and Fro

    What is God’s eye view of earth
    that sees a sparrow fall
    sees the world a whirling ball
    sees humanity as a mass
    yet each clearly as a blade of grass
    God sees from that lofty perch
    with eyes that sweep and search
    each heart, each turn of mind
    of every being in humankind
    everywhere God looks and sees
    from a grain of sand to the Pleiades

    My vision is so small
    I can barely see at all
    I wonder does God grieve
    that I only cling and cleave
    desperate to believe.

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