I saw you on the drive to work
a buzzard on a fallen tree
perched on the raw stump of it
the cut where the chainsaw bit
and the tree crashed off to the side
you seemed so settled and sure
I thought maybe it was you
who’d felled the oak
and were resting from your labour

in that flashing second
I wondered if you saw me
perhaps before I reached the end of the road
you’d be shaking the rage from your metalled wings
leaping up, reaching out, flying again
hooked beak
burning eye
heading for the city

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