The Hawk

The hawk soars in the air,
A prince of the skies.
The winds gently caress
feathers of brownish gold.
Cries are heard
from afar,
gliding from tree to tree,
forest to field.
He knows no fear,
in the heart of his domain.
His sees his victim from below,
nothing escapes those eyes,
bright as a pair of set topaz,
nothing is hidden from his sight.
Screaming, he attacks
like a bullet in the bright light.
Grasping his prey
in claws hard as steel.
Away, he flies again,
screaming triumphantly.
And with him,
death,
to the doomed creature.