A Brush With Death

 

I felt the air of the hawk

Brush against my skin

As if death itself

Unexpectedly

Had flashed before my eyes

 

… But not His

Contentedly unaware

Was my four-legged friend

Sniffing doggedly in the grass

Oblivious to fact that

One of nature’s diurnal birds of prey

Had seen visions of a Thanksgiving dinner

In an old, somewhat overweight

Slowly moving

Slightly limping

Miniature schnauzer

 

So dangerously close

Was my companion’s end

I shudder to think

Surely I must have imagined it

No one would believe me anyways

Oh, they might be polite

And nod their heads in amazement

But I know what they are thinking

 

“Thomas has been in the cups again.”