The stout man uncovered a plastic box
shot with a machine to create breathing luxuries.
Confused messy feathers trapped in the holes
the creature inside clacking her beak anxiously.
The holes are not ever enough.
"Help me carry," the seller said to the buyer,
grasping the box's sides with sweaty filthy hands
worn down by raw life itself.
The customer with no regrets,
rugged, tall, femme,
grabbed the whole thing,
so much stronger,
and set it into the back of the truck
boots crunching on the roadside gravel.
She handed the money, worthless paper, over
with a curt nod, that's all it took,
and left, leaping into the back of the truck
to join the falcon that was not ever meant to be joined.
Speeding away, her body being bumped around carelessly,
she enjoyed the wind in her hair, closest to flying as possible,
and the truck left the portly man.
He knew that she had gotten the better end.
"'Ere are the jesses and 'ood," her best friend barked,
tossing the gear out the hole from the window,
"and 'ere is your glove."
She silently slipped on her heavy black leather glove
for humans need protection from raw beauties.
She groped the jesses and hood until the hood was pinched
between her forefinger and scarred thumb,
and with her other hand she opened the box, grabbed the bird
just as it was about to fly to freedom, and put on the jesses
as fast as light, unfairly.
The human stared hard at the beautiful goshawk
until she, slammed down to an "it" by the humans,
Nature was going to be completely taken down soon,
wild beauties harnessed forever,
by the horrible things that are humans,
the horrible things that patronize everything,
stubbing their toes and then smashing the wall in revenge.
The human slammed the hood onto the goshawk,
meant to calm her down,
but it blinded the falcon and turned her into nothingness,
the beginning to the slow killing of her,
which was the beginning to the slow killing of nature,
and the human never truly took the hood off.