don’t look at me
I’m not your lunch!
Voracious is his appetite
For that which scurries in his sight
Inside this little acre’s banks
He finds the bellies, cheeks, and flanks
Sees them, pounces, and devours
The mouse and mole, their final hour
I see this each and every day
The perch, the drop, death’s cruel play
Tragic yes, for those that nourish
Needed though, so he may flourish
One harsh truth, it’s not their living
It’s in their death that they are giving
Real worth and value to their kind
The ones we humans often find
Stuck on traps of glue or worse
Death by bird? Or a sticky hearse
What can I say? Was a slow day in the newsroom!
😉
50 Shades of Gray Hair 
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