How a hawk sees his lunch flying over Millie Hill in September
Trees and sticks over
boulders and logs and shrubs
and a tittering chipmunk.
How that same chipmunk recognizes the advancing pall of the hawk and his own impending oblivion, and thereby avoids the clichés that accompany the last moments of many small rodents
Hark, a hawk. I guess I'm through.
Hello Gregor and Hello Charles
and goodbye to you,
my dear sweet darling.
1 comment:
Clever. Gotta love a poem that incorporates natural selection and Mendelian genetics.
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