Eerie is the cry of the Hawk
dangerously alluring –
perched above the scurry and the scamper,
No other bird would dare to talk
with laundry day still stirring
clothes still wadded-up inside the hamper,
It’s quiet when the morning breaks
dew still intertwines –
a lovely scarf, a pair of socks hung upon the line,
The meter skips, the cadence shifts
You’re caught a bit off guard –
Tis when he strikes on laundry day
there in your own backyard.
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