The Hawk

I hanged a hawk from the rafter, today.
It spun slowly in folded air,
Dangling by its legs.
It got shouted at by the dog.

My brother joined me to watch it spin.
He said it looked quite finished,
It was in fact a work in progress,
Wait till the flies see it, I said.

Called away for dinner
I had to abandon the hanged hawk.
It watched me leave
And pleaded with its one eye.

Wishing to explain, I raised a hand,
Spread my fingers wide
And walked slowly backwards,
Closing one finger with each step.

The hawk, unsatisfied by this,
Winced at my little finger’s shutting
Twirling in its suspended grave,
Wanting something better than departure.

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