The Peasant Pheasant

February 26, 2013
Hunting, lurking, eyes lingering, thinking
should we move?
fluttering, chirping, wings beating
against the space their eyes reprove.
For a time I let you think that
you were stalking me.
For a time I let you lie to yourself;
left you poised in your secrecy.
Were you surprised to find me predator
instead of common prey?
Were you surprised to see the talons
below feathers seen day-to-day?
Did you expect the finch
that you hunt so commonplace?
Did you expect the garden bird
who'd frantically fly away?
For a time I let you think that you were in control,
and for each time I saw you puff out your chest
my empathy withered to dull.
I have no pity for you;
I never was that pithy.
I have no sympathy for you;
you'd see more through eyes cast humbly.
Where once you sat on high,
peering down at me,
now I'll take flight and nest above,
and watch you watching me.
I'll let you sit there watching me;
I'll execute wrath humorously,
for rightly you are scared to flee.

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