THE BLACK SHOULDERED KITE

The black shouldered kite

Shakes his silver pinioned wings

And does what he has to do

Which is hover,

Then change position,

Slip-slide, ride the wind

And hover again;

Like a feathered helicopter

Over this scrappy, scrubby field.

The black shouldered kite’s red eyes

Know no pity and see through concealments,

To detect the urine traces of

Scurrying mice and voles

Which better had, scurry like mad,

For now the black shouldered kite is god here

And god is not love,

But a grey feathered raptor,

Which wants its dinner

And will feast on saint or sinner.

It will fold its slender wings and drop,

To spear you on sharp-clawed talons,

Carry you to the top of a telegraph pole

And eviscerate you.

The black shouldered kite

Don’t take no shite.