There is Always Some Way To Defeat
There Is Always Some Way To Defeat

The nest of the hawk, home to Prince of Birds,
The creature beyond utterance of words,
Spreads his wings, muscles straining to move,
Lift his muscled body weight high from the groove
Set deep into the cliff, sheer straight up and down,
And the bird dons the power and strength of majestic gown.

The tail feathers spread, to forward lead and guide,
To direct its true bearing and channel its strong pride,
Set silhouetted spread courageously across the sky,
Scanning and observing all, the meticulous, deadly eye,
And spots its target sitting distantly so far below,
The prey sitting quietly nibbling wholesome grass in glow.

The bird pulls in its wings, and sails through the air,
Toward his target neath the trees, waiting for him there,
When suddenly a reaching branch latches onto a single feather,
The crushing bark wraps itself round it like leather,
One simple primer ripped from the wing of flight,
And the Prince of Birds now finds himself in a fatal plight.

It falls like a rock toward the Mother of Nature: Earth,
to sink onto the ground, to not fly up from lonely mirth,
Whence it can no longer rise into air with awe and with power,