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.
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