Sparrowhawk

The chickens’ squawking alarm is riotous

just before something thuds into the window. 

The flock, free ranging the lawn, have scattered, 

their small wings flapping in panicked haste. 

I run outside, barefoot, feeling responsible. 

There's a body on the ground below the window.

The limp bundle is surprisingly light 

as I instinctively lift it from the earth.

No injury mars its face or feathers,

it still breathes, warm against my fingertips.

I take a moment to marvel at the beauty;

barred breast, slate grey wings and a fierce profile.

Eyes of brightest yellow blink, and its beak opens.

The sparrowhawk regains its consciousness -

feathers shifting as its muscles begin to flex.

As it spreads its wings, it grips my fingers 

tightly, as purchase to launch itself skyward.

A moment of pain as talons slice skin. 

The hawk swoops low before arcing upwards,

sending the regrouped hens scattering once more.