The Golden Oriole

On his twenty-fifth birthday, elated He decided to go hunting. He let the fresh air of the early morning On the slope of a wooded hill, fill his lungs. A small vale stretched beneath him, Whilst behind the trees rose a small sheer cliff. That was where he saw the golden oriole. It was a beautiful specimen, all yellow. Martin admired its graceful flight. And the bird seemed to enjoy itself, too. He observed it intently as it glided, soared, turned, And flew happily over the old gnarled trees below. Suddenly, a hellish black kestrel appeared in the sky. It hovered above, eyes glinting, beak poised. The oriole sensed it immediately. Irrationally, it defied the bird of prey, For it continued its fancy flight Until the kestrel began its dive. Then the oriole flew directly towards the cliff And inexplicably disappeared. It was the worst birthday of Martin’s life.