Cycle of Life

Softest sound,
Quiet as drops of dew
That slides from the blade
Of grass, touching
Lightly upon the soft earth
Before being swallowed
By the thirsty sands
Surrounding the impression
Left by a form that fell
Just as the moon rose
Last night.

The hunting owl
Wings spread in flight
Cast little warning
In shadow form as
She glided in silence
Over the fields of wheat
But her eyes,
So yellow and clever
Found quarry before
The quarry found her

It sat there
Whiskers twitching
As ever-growing teeth
Gnawed thick-shelled seed
And it did not pause
Except to sniff
Captured puffs
Perfumed with hay and
The sweetest grass
Touch of mums
Taste of roses
And the tangy zest
Of lawn chemicals

She did not
Utter a single sound
As she tipped her tail
And altered her path
Swiftly the ground
Passed beneath her
Leaf, grass, stone
Pebble, pollen, dust
All swept by
As she brought herself
Nearly nape of the
Earth in flight

Clever piercing talons
Extend down swift
Forward lock and
Grab as her prey
Squeals in the harsh
Silver light of moon
And then she rises
Upwards to heaven
The weight meaningless
As her wings boost
Feathered body
Toward home again

To the nest
Three sets of eyes
Soft squawks utter
And she alights there
The scent of brood
Touches her nares
Before great beak lowers
And shreds the morsel
That will provide
Chicks with strength

Come the dawn
Dew drops glisten
And the depression
Remains in the grass
And in the sand
A struggle happened
Here and the grass
Remembers, as does
The half-eaten seed
Forgotten on the ground.

I am