Like an old man hunched in his chair
A blanket of feathers gathered against the cold.
He sits in the gnarled fingers of a winter bare tree
waiting for breakfast to be served.
Two crows perch warily on a nearby branch.
and nervously preen; their eyes fixed on the winter worn hawk.
Hoping they aren't the daily special on the hawks menu...
But even so...daring him to catch them if he can.
Before the dusk sets on the river, liquid steel
on a gray December day.