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Those bigger birds with tail of red,
All appetite and attitude,
Are soaring slowly overhead
Alert for chance of sex or food.
At this time, two, more often one,
On rising air from heated ground,
Conceal themselves inside the sun
To take their prey without a sound.
What poet can resist their stare?
These noble souls are wingéd kings.
The wicked beak, the fiery glare--
But let's consider other things:
Above this dog poo freshly piled
You see another flying beast
Not one bit less the creature wild
In flight above its next big feast.
And there above the jasmine bush
A ball of pheromone and flies
Their flight an acrobatic rush
Victorious sex! The winner dies!
But s.hit hawks do not move your pen.
The feathered fliers get the play;
Of eagles write, revere the wren.
I think it wrong. I've had my say.

(The bees, of course, are sugar hawks.
I've said as much in other talks.)