The Call

Oh, who do you call, My beautiful one? Rising in iridescent splendor In the dark side of light against the creeping dawn. A mourning cry to follow ere the heat of day, Dries up the velvet feathered throats of longing. A reddened eye of patience waits and watches; Awash in tall grass, brown eyes blink Then more as fear leaps to flight in graceful bounds. But a muscular coat of dusty fur and the ruby spray of death Insures another day of life and an all too ready hunger.