Death In the Morning
The wood pigeon awoke on her roosting perch,fluttered with a nervous jerk;warily
searching for sustenance,above the peregrine made a fateful entrance.The
winter harsh and icy cold,driven far from its familiar fold,seeking food further
afield to an urban garden that might increase its yield.Under a biting wintry sky
the short tailed falcon hovered high,an efficient killer from above,more than a
match for pigeon or dove.Taking its chosen meal in flight,swooping sudden from
a great height,the momentum imprinting our window pane,her throat slashed
she soon was slain.Talons sunk deep into the pigeons chest this finicky eater
pecked at head and breast.The lawn strewn leavings of a ravenous raptor,as
nature's journal leafs another chapter.
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