With Darkened Talons

There was death here,

a fast flutter of wings,

over quickly,

blood,

feathers,

sinew,

all left in the snowy yard,

and now I wonder,

if they remember,

if caution rides their bones,

as they snatch seeds,

quickly and suddenly,

they pause,

as if an attack is imminent,

I stretch to look,

that hawk perhaps,

perched here a year ago,

but nothing,

they hold still 

as winds buck and roar,

marking frigid time,

 at last,

winter is having its say,

and death,

with darkened talons,

found its prey.

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