The Boomtree

A poem written from the perspective a bird being stalked by a hunter.

Sunlight burned through broken branch and blistered bark and in that moment, evening passed. From their towers of refuge brother doves and sister sparrows made flight from fallen night and to the new days light, at last. The wet fields glistened with a dewy brilliance prepared for mist and without resilience, as it did for that time before it pireced and placed itself mid-sky. Avians, AMASS!
    The Slither Snappers made out their passing coil from narrow hovels covered by grass and assaulted soil. Monoliths of metallic doom grumbled and tumbled along the earth, that felt the feathers rumbled and terror made it's birth. The smoky roar made all things soar in fright, answered by the singing of the songbirds humble plight. To tear across the sky in fear, knowing that a danger other-worldy---is slowly coming near.
    Never a cloud was there as feather flew through air and peace, while gliding through the weather fair. A breath of breeze that was made with flying ease, a creation sent by She with loving and to ever please. Dreary thoughts begone, for after longest night comes swiftest dawn.
    But---never was there a thing that brought more gloom to me, as the ever dreaded, walking Boomtree! It lumbered while others still softly slumbered and with worry of friends, I was thus encumbered. I scream a song of warning, to all those not arisen from the morning. I swoop and sway, the Boomtree shouts back my way. Shimmering extensions outward branched, and my soul so glimmering was sharply blanched. It spat at me and there was pain for I was struck, I had been slain. I fell, but for how long? I could not tell, I was without song. Quick as a blink I hit the ground and in victory it cried for I was downed, so pink and gory. It thought I died and with a heave, then heavily sighed.
A single expression of childish glee, came from the leaf-less, stalking Boomtree.
    It seems these things, they like to hunt. Whether for meaty game or airborne runt that sings. I feel the warmth flow from my vessel, it is now with death that I must wrestle. I have no children, or wife that was. I survived alone and just because. With parting of my being, they would be filled with sorrow. For today I fly, but not tomorrow. I die. For all the times, I thank the sky. For without her, I would not fly. I wish well my wounded wings, and all the freedom flying brings. Shadow suffocates the sun from me, as approaches the looming, stalking Boomtree. It has eyes that don't despise. It has pity, while somehow still remaining giddy. In the cold I can't help but shiver, and in it's branches I woefully quiver. My neck is clasped and life is grasped but taken, while of mercy I still am not forsaken.
    My soul is carried in the wind, I forgive the hunter it has not sinned. Of my flesh it will live on, through coldest night and warmest dawn. Death is life, whether by oldest age or end of knife. To be free from fear and shed not a tear, forever devoid of strife. But, some feelings thrive whilst you are still alive---for never was there a thing that brought more gloom to me---as the ever dreaded, walking Boomtree.

Author's Note

As with much of my 'poetry' I have too much thought and too little words to conform myself to any iambs or scheme of previous kinds. Some will come to see I choose to speak and rhyme with no form at all however I believe if you read it without distraction and in the realm of unmistakable comfort, it will be much more enjoyable as these were written in the polar opposite.