the mouse

this hawk, it's
feathers burnt
brown and blonde
in muted color,
with yellowed claws,
swings down in
a muffled rush at
what burrows in
the thickened winter
tangle, the ruffled
ground that lies
above the stream.
she swoops in with
a blur of wings
and a sharp
beak aimed at it's
prey, a field mouse
that hides
it's small grey
life, hardly a palm
full, and it's
heart beats with joy
and fear, not unlike
us, having escaped
another day.