COMPASSION

Compassion

I freeze this morning when I hear the thud dogwoods leaning near enough.
Standing out back by the feeders,
stuffing the suet cakes in the suet cage,
thud
of the big female Sharpie striking down the Mourning Dove.
On the ground, a skirt of wings protects the faltering kill.
I am frozen.
The hawk tears out the breast feathers flips them blood stains up in the curious wind.
Some catch in my sweater.

Flurry of chest feathers, thud of plump snow slipping off the hot dumb roof,
she carries away her kill flying just off the ground,
my life blown again wild thud of my heart
and squinting
at the fat savage sun.