To Feed A Serpent

Cradled high in the branches

among its spindly, curling fingers,

sits a nest, sunlit,

a rounded fortress

of twigs and feathers

barely hiding three enormous eggs.

Mama bird, brown-breasted

and white-capped,

returns from hunting,

settles her weight, wings

spread,

and shifts her warm belly

against her eggs, her heartbeat

thrumming a lullaby to

her unhatched chicks.

Curled by the root of the tree,

a watchful thick snake

lies patient,

hungry black eyes heavy on the nest,

space in his belly the size

of an egg.

He begins a slow dance,

up, up, up

From behind a neighboring oak

I squint,

and draw my string back,

shut one eye tight,

and release

my arrow.

A quick silent puff

of brown and white feathers

explodes in the air above

the eggs

and moments later I find her,

her brown breast collapsed

in a puddle of red.

Her breaths are quick, her beak

wide open, her throat silent.

I watch until her feathers

no longer heave

and step over her, leaving

three eggs

to the serpent.

Somewhere in the woods

a bird cries out,

lullaby to

an empty

nest.