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.
