Highway Hunter

When winter trees are bare of leaves, Each branch is clearly seen, No longer hidden by the summer Blanketing of green. And that is why I sometimes see, Resplendently arrayed, A hawk or falcon on a limb, Exposed but not afraid. Most patiently it scopes things out And glances all around, In hopes of spying something scurry There upon the ground. I never see it swooping down, Abandoning its perch, But knowing what’s to come, I’d rather Be left in the lurch.