Clad

in admiralty blue,

rank dabbed and denoted

in white and black,

he clutches,

in an executioner’s grip,

the limp featherless form

still pinked with the breath

of recent life.

Cloaked

in delft and gray,

eyes bright with a

sunset captured,

she is pursued and scolded.

And I,

a witness apart,

must remind myself –

there is

no malice present,

nor joy

in the other’s suffering.

There are

no monsters

here.

— C.Birde, 5/17