The Watcher
A shadow shrouded hawk
as inert as stone
perched.
The fence is a claw
some dead hand
has hammered into
the moonlight.
Clouds,
if only there were clouds
to blur this stark glare.
That silent raptor
bores burrows
into my thoughts.
On this frozen night
there's not a feather
or whisker of cover,
nor
no other way
to hear, hide
or see.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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