Cry of the Red-wattled Lapwing

It’s not sweet as the Asian koel’s song. The red-wattled lapwing voices its irrecoverable loss. The bird’s sorrow scalds the night. It was brooding in the serene scrape nest. The black blotchy eggs camouflaged with the pebbles and sand, yet they weren’t safe from the predator. The motherese and the fluttering dream in the shell ended in an omelet. The hunter never enjoys the art on its plume and the charms of its black-tipped red bill and long slender yellow legs. He mistakes everything in nature is for his pleasure. The avian anguish doesn’t roust him. His heart is so, the real and origami birds are alike. Its doleful cry continues, darkening the moonlight. Who cares for it in the world of hunters? First published in The Literary Hatchet