Raptor Poem by Taylor Rosewood

I'm life untethered, soaring upward
on itself, sharp of talon and lethal of
beak, leaving nothing in my wake but
warm blood and gristle.

If the moon were alive I would
slice right through it, and swallow
it in chunks before it ever reached
it's zenith.

But as it is, it's an ice cube, melted
by a heat lamp, and I catch it's tepid
drops in the belly of the titmouse, or
the warbler, or the blue jay-

each taken to the ridge line and
slaughtered in the sunshine,
where I only get a few bites before
the flies come to drive me away.