The Instinct to Live

A blue-gray pigeon swoops down,
glides, then soars over the roof.

It lives as if the rent were free.

It quickly comes down to feed.
It softly coos while on the ground,
picking up kernels one by one.

Light on its feet,
it strolls about carefree.

Its steps are measured and rhythmic,
then it takes wing.

A rogue, deep-brown hawk
hovers in the sky,
its eyes fixed on the pigeon below.

Patient and motionless,
it waits.

Then it plunges down,
hard, fast, and violent.

Its claws miss by mere inches.

It swerves to the right,
lifts its wings,
and comes around again for the kill.

It bursts away in a blur,
escaping its claws.

I've heard all the stories
about the hawk's speed and precision,

but if those stories are true,

why did the hawk fail
to kill the pigeon?

Again and again it attacked,
each pass bringing it within inches,

yet the little pigeon's instincts
kept it beyond its reach.

The hunger to hunt
met the instinct to live.