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Bird of Prey

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No, I mustn't
beat my wings;
they mustn't see me
falter.
Is my plumage
straight?
In line?
How else would I be able to
block
their orb of light?

Idiots.
I don't have to
preen
to shine
beneath my skin.
I don't have to
waste my time.
Even though they fix
their hide,
they still are foul
deep inside.

With the sharpest
pair of eyes—
the brightest part
of me,
mind you—
I gaze upon the world
below
and gaze until
my throat is sore
from screeching
curses at the horde.

Greedy, superficial,
mean,
beastly, mindless, gross…
not me!
What lowly creatures
tread the earth,
hauling dense trunks
on their feet.

The stupid men—
they think they're
smart
but what good
does all that paper do
when I could simply
steal it
and gain their power, too?

Yes, I have a sizeable,
pleasant treetop nest,
made from all those
twigs and leaves
that other fowl
could have used,
but how else would one
expect me to
survive
and live my life?

Those lowly beings—
powerless
without their guns
and planes.
False prowess!
It is not fair
at all
that I should not
be able to
wield a sword
nor fire a gun.

But lo!
What is that
searing pain
that rips through
my comely chest?
It felt like lead,
but does it matter,
now that I
will soon be dead?

Now my pinion
have to beat,
but now it is too late.
Too high I'd flown
and now it is
a great fall I must take.



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