Buteo Buteo
up,
up,
lifted by
warm thermals, circling
where air is free of smoke, of small flying things,
or irritating noise. Now still as a kite on the end of a taut
string, briefly fluttering wing tips; brown, flecked, hovering,
her underbelly pale in the sun;
bead eyes, tucked claws
so beautiful, so perfect,
so deadly as she
drop-dives
to a bloody kill
out of sight
in
long
grass