The Hungered Hawk

The hungered hawk his claws he’s honing

At the hill top his wing’s drop—homing,

The sun in the backdrop is groaning,

Not a flick of night, will last of its prey;

There was not a mouse to squeak or crying,

Not a hint that a creature was dying,

Not a shrubbery where it was lying,

The hungered hawk, ate and left no grave;

It guzzled what stray stirring,

It’s eyes like beacons, bright and alluring,

It’s feathered crest was slowly furthering,

The fully hawk needn’t eat for days;

And so the hawk on a hilltop perching,

Surrounded by trees, all prey divulging,

After many days of intensive hungering,

The hungered hawk couldn’t stave away