All eyes are fearful of the spotted hawk,
whose dappled wingspread opens to a phrase
that only victims gaping in the gaze
of Death Occurring can recite. To stalk;
to plunge; to harvest; the denial-squawk
of dying's struggle; these are but a day's 
rebuke to hunger for the hawk, whose glazed
accord with Death admits no show of shock.

Death's users know it is not theirs to own,
nor can they fathom all it means to die—
for young to know a different Death from old.
But when the spotted hawk's last flight is flown,
he too becomes a novice, fear-struck by
the certain plummet once these feathers fold.