I saw the hunter leave.
Thirty minutes later,
he returns.
Now, a fish writhes,
impaled by talons.
In the air. Out of water,
like some ultramarine blue
Chagall painting.  All that is missing is the goat.

He lands, balancing perfectly
on the telephone pole
and for an hour, feasts,
then drops the shattered
body at the nest.

Max barks about the stick
in the pond.
I am left speechless.

©Kathleen Moors