The Hunt

There’s always a hunt.

Whether for power or

For joys for evermore,

No matter the affront.

The owl knew it best.

Rarely did he complain

Or speak with such disdain.

Instead, he waited in his nest.

Through tiresome tugs

Of the malevolent storms

And gentle breezes of norms,

He waited and never settled for bugs.

One friend had given up.

“More food south,” he claims,

“Better for hunts and no silly games.”

But he sighed and forced them to split up.

So he waited alone in his nest.

Watching, never daring to leave

For the spoils of war he might receive

Could appear if he took rest.

And he flapped his wings and flew.

Silent as the night, talons ready

And he struck. Ignore the squeals. Steady.

Landing on one leg, he breathed, “phew”.

His prey, his squirming rat, made him grin.

No food? Ha! So, he began his meal,

Satisfied with how amazingly surreal

It felt to win in a world of whirlwind.