The Call

By Jean Bush

Oh, who do you call,

My beautiful one?

Rising in iridescent splendor

In the dark side of light against the creeping dawn.

A mourning cry to follow ere the heat of day,

Dries up the velvet feathered throats of longing.

A reddened eye of patience waits and watches;

Awash in tall grass, brown eyes blink

Then more as fear leaps to flight in graceful bounds.

But a muscular coat of dusty fur and the ruby spray of death

Insures another day of life and an all too ready hunger.