In Marked Territory

The shadow of his flight swept across the ground. Always the vigilant hunter at twilight's time of day No swoosh heard from the hawk's feathered wings. This swift and silent predator never makes a sound when soaring through shrubs and trees after prey... lizards, snakes, small game and other furry things. His territory, the conservation lot next to my house, is marked with many dried and brittle skeletal bones and guarded from his perch high atop an ancient oak. A mated pair moved in soon after me and my spouse. She said he's a good neighbor and calls him Mr. Jones, who keeps our yard free of mice, a congenial bloke. One day the pair were flying together as if in a dance when I noticed another hawk had sights on moving in. To defend their territory, they gave it a raucous chase. The battle ended quickly once they took their stance. We also protect our home from intruders. We're linchpin, at keeping it safe because it's our chosen nesting place. I mark my territory by trimming the hedges and lawn, keeping watch over it with eyes as keen as the hawk. That mailbox bears my name proving this is my land. I own all of it where the boundary lines have been drawn. From one end to the other, I'll not surrender where I walk. Anyone who tries to take it will feel the wrath of my hand.