With hooked beak sharp and fierce, unyielding gaze,
The hawk commands the thermal’s rising haze.
A master of the air, designed to slay,
The apex hunter of the bright midday.
Eight times more potent than a human eye,
Their vision pierces from the vault on high;
A mile away, a shadow in the weed,
Becomes the target of their blinding speed.
From tip to tip, their wingspan carves the cloud,
Across the continents they cry aloud—
In desert wastes, deep woods, and urban spires,
Where nature meets the city’s modern fires.
Only the frozen south remains untrod
By these swift sentinels of stone and sod.
High in the branches of a lonely tree,
They weave the massive fortress of the eyrie.
For twenty years they rule the open sky,
And watch the generations passing by.
With crushing talons and a sudden strike,
They claim the rabbit and the mouse alike.
They shield the harvest from the rodent’s greed,
And serve the land in hour of its need.
By culling out the feeble and the frail,
They halt the plague before it can prevail.
A living mirror of the earth’s design,
Where water, soil, and breath in strength align.
While hawks fly healthy through the upper air,
The world below remains balanced and fair.
