Dawn

--by Malka Gorbunov

There is a life to see before the dawn,
a world in hiding from the shameless sun
a world of creatures shunning human eyes
a world of dampest cold and darkest blue
a world that sings and hunts before the dawn.

The winter finches jumping in the snow
in keen contention for a fallen seed,
that leave no prints, and dare not make a sound,
a comic squabble in the feeble light;
The great horned owl's final journey home,
a stately shade beneath its massive wings;
The gentle call of drowsy mourning doves,
the homely sparrows singing out their souls.

A softer blue dilutes the inky sky.
A fawn, so proud of waking into March
pulls needles from a spruce with baby-glee;
Its mother watches from the forest's edge,
a grave and graceful sentry, still and keen,
observant, poised to signal and to fly.

A streak of gold upon unbroken snow.
The hawk who makes his habitat up north
and only strays by winter to New York,
swoops from the darkness of a shaggy pine
to claim a vole. There is a muted shriek,
a sudden flash of feathered sun- then dawn,
a bloody light. Both beings are no more.