Oh little kittys, I don’t think you could eat Paul the Gull. He has a 5 foot wingspan – he would most likely eat you!
Gulls… whatever. Scritch, scritch, scritch…
Celebrate Poetry Month
Crane and Hawk
by John Kinsella
The crane, eyes fixed, moves steadily,
its expression one of quiet desperation;
awkwardly graceful, it lifts
with an arc of its wings.
Turning and cutting the same path over,
the crane relies on what we know as patience,
while the hawk effortlessly shadows—
death’s mimic playing with time.
Between the two, a world rife
with speculation turns uneasily
on its tightening axis; within,
there is something too perfect.
The shudder of the crane stretching,
(the rhetoric of expectation?),
could be an updraft seized mid-flight
and fallen by the way…
What end when a bird of prey
moves so slowly? When a crane would seek
no more than a circuitous life anyway,
and the day warms to indifference.