The Hunting Bird

Morning as small
as the tip of a match
struck suddenly,
sulfuric, dramatic

burns quickly.

In the groves,
the snails move like
landbound migrating
doves with rations

tied to their backs;

arresting the shiniest
black of a crow's eye
trembling feathered
and focused-

plans its attack.

A soul, the size
of a pin, a life
so slow and patient
even for men

seems purposeful.

So I, thick as
a bear, with a stick
as thin as a willow
chase away

the hunting bird.