The Hawk, De-Mist-ified

A hawk sits at the top of the oak tree beside our little pond,

the one we call the mudhole.

Hawk’s back faces me; stiff tailfeathers fan in classic pose.

Fog mists heavily, cloaking the morning in thick dreams

or a backdrop of majesty. Out of the silent stillness,

suddenly, movement. Leaves flutter and the hawk’s wings

span open in a dive toward the water

where it snatches a bird flying low, drops it on the grass

and casually devours it, beaking it until its gone.

Then, quickly, briefly, wings span open just long enough

to propel the hawk to the lowest limb in the oak, more hop than flight,

where it now sits on the tree branch, facing me, puffed in pose,

waiting for its next snack. Many minutes of unmoving meditation, then

snatch. In the blink of an eye a leap down from the tree to clutch

a field mouse in its talons and soar away.

Magically, the mist has lifted, cleared itself away, unveiled itself as it revealed

one raw mystery of premeditated survival.