Birth In Duplicate

Her body is stretched out

on either side of her bulge.

This is no pose.

Her pregnancy really is a heavy fist

ready to strike out at the father

or the doctor or one of the three nurses.

She’s been stripped away

until nothing is left but this giant cyst

of another’s being.

“Pop it” she screams.

“Push,” the others holler

like the mob at a hanging.

Then her brain strikes a match,

sets fire to her head.

Her glare loads up with arrows,

fires at anything in white.

Strong stuff

but the medical team have seen stronger.

The woman’s structure holds.

The baby’s coming.

Life is irreversible.

She struggles.

One minute the child is stuck in her throat.

The next it’s trying out its karate chops

on her abdomen.

Her husband, in the waiting room,

stares out the window at

the leaves and fruits of late spring.

He imagines this is just what

his wife is doing.

Eagle And Mouse

The bald eagle flew low

over the snow-covered meadow.

I watched from my window.

It was such a rare sighting

and, with its wings spread wide,

beak on alert, head cocked downward,

I was in awe of the bird’s magnificence,

this mighty living dinosaur,

this T-rex of the skies.

The surface below was littered

with tiny footprints, traces of

scurrying field mice,

the fail-safe diet of a hungry bird of prey.

These poor tiny wretches

had my sympathy and,

more than that, my empathy.

The food chain is the Bible upside down.

The meek don’t inherit this earth.

They’re a mere banquet

for the stronger, faster,

the sharp-eyed, the super-hearing.

Suddenly, the eagle swooped,

grabbed a straggling rodent

in its talons, took off toward

the summit of a nearby oak.

Such a mesmerizing spectacle.

My affinity with mice

did not hold back my silent cheer.

The Hawk

I knew it was only a matter of time.

I've watched the hawk circling my yard all morning,

occasionally alighting on

the upper branch of a maple

to eye the activity at my feeders below.

I have played a role in this,

having stuffed one hanging tube with thistle,

filled an exposed cup with seed.

On a winter's day, with all else snow-encrusted,

the local bird-life, squirrel population,

know where there's a quick, easy meal for the taking.

They’re aware of the risk

for their whole lives are lived in jeopardy.

They're small, mostly defenseless.

The food chain does them no favors.

So when the hawk plunges,

I'm startled but not shocked.

It grasps a mourning dove in its talons.

Blood spray scatters the juncos.

The raptor rises with its bounty,

claws piercing its victim's ribcage,

the dove's head cocked in shrieking terror,

snatched from its own life,

borne over the trees, the rooftops,

to the hawk’s favored dining spot.

I have compromised the lives of creatures

They neither thank me nor admonish me

for my interference.

As long as there's food in the feeder,

they will happily return.

If not for me,

the hawk’s story would still be told.

But it would be set elsewhere.