(M. w. graysoni)
She utters such a chortle,
she seems immortal
and then, in lunar light,
grabs supper in mid-flight.
Spotting a scorpion snack,
it’s time to attack
and amputate the stinger
quick as a snapped finger!
She’s found a hole in a tree,
the cavity
a woodpecker made and quit,
and by and by she’ll sit
on eggs white as a cloud.
Soon chicks, endowed
with wings, will flap to the moon
then snooze all afternoon.
Lighter than two ounces,
her parter pounces
and rapidly devours
moths near agave flowers.
She’ll make as if to die
if held, then fly,
zipping off like a shot,
though she too may be caught
by a hawk or a bigger owl
or when we foul,
disfigure, and defile
her rough volcanic isle.
Why talk as though she’s thriving?
She ceased surviving.
Along with the saguaro,
we may be gone tomorrow.
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