He sits
Preening
himself quietly
Until she
calls him
Urgently
Feed us; our
babies crying
Hungrily
Wings
Soft
feathered and silent
He hunts for
her
For their
four chicks
“Beauty
doesn’t fill the pot”
She angrily
decries
She watches
As he takes
to the skies
On silent
wings; stretched forth
Huge eyes;
opened wide
He heads due
north
Upon soft
wings he glides
Hunting
Anything that
moves
Seeking
Their next
meal
Of these actions
She approves
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