The hawks are in a frenzy this weekend
clearing out wildlife
like bargain-crazed shoppers
snatching up specials
and making off with their squawking purchases.
Must have chicks. Damn. Dilemma.
Two strikes witnessed
in two days
both
on the front lawn
where the magpies normally stalk lawyerly
and the Willie Wagtails switch tails endearingly,
snapping up invisible insects.
The latter have been twitching up
white startled eyebrows instead,
then flitting off, nervously
- all chittery agitation.
Rest of the feathery kibbutz
have been chattering, scolding, chorusing their disapproval
safely tucked under protective canopies,
the lawns having become a no-go-zone killing field
for the proficient raptors.
Guess that explains the three rosellas
that have uncharacteristically kamikazed with a frantic - BANG!
into feature windows
then relaunched immediately
flapping up frazzled and whirring
groggy but still all desperate-flurry, away.
Went outside
to see if I could help
when the first air raid attack was broadcast
by the warning bird-siren-chorus.
Course,
it was pointless.
Though the hawk did drop his load
having retreated to the large flowering gum at my approach.
His little victim
a honey-eater
still floppy soft
as if bombs
had rendered her
boneless.
Dead
of course
small red
beading wounds
spaced where
deep-driving
claws might
clench into flesh
whilst gathering
a feed
for hungry

babes.