The Bird of Prey
Poemata 87
Article voiceover
Old brown eagle perched on branches 'cross the street Hulking bird of prey -- Buzzard perhaps, by his feet; Pays me little heed and I return the charge Voiceless in the tree -- neither of us are so large; Does he think me also walking bird of prey? Man is such a thing -- Needless of me to now say; Does he have such thoughts a bird philosophy? Feather'd phrontistery? Beak sealed tight as it may be; Saying much of him would seem to be amiss Like to speak of me -- In many words such as this; Shadows on the wall instance of a type Seen, not understood Never an object of hype; Buzzard is a poet then, he waits to speak Find the proper words Kennings dispersed on the street; They may never come and so he must endure Keeping watch from here -- Waiting for hunger to cure; On the porch he sits a man with pipe in hand Cloud of smoke he puffs -- Such signals he understands; Waiting in the branch I shift my neck to see Quickly he is gone Feet moving so silently.