The Kingbird from her perch sat waiting for her prey.
Not yet dark, the phosphorescent earth
silently waited to receive the offering.

At five o'clock the chiaroscuro of the evening sun played out
on the walls and ground casting a pall of the unknown to come.
The innocent Dove approached the bier cautiously,
not being accustomed to late evening tête à têtes.
Something was amiss in the carefully planned prism.
The Kingbird had brought in a bird of a different species.

"Come in," bade the Kingbird, indicating a perch for Dove.
Sitting with her was the lieutenant bird of unknown species.
Looking somewhat out of place, she must play her part
in the Kingbird's autonomous death rite.
"My favorite role as Kingbird of this perch," she tweeted pridefully.
At that moment the Kingbird opened its great beak swallowing up Dove.
No jury of peers, no plea bargaining, no chance to chant
or play a requiem. No! No! No!

The fevered Kingbird pecked at the remains
in great dichotomous agitation and exhilaration.
"I am the Kingbird here. No more soaring higher than I.
I rule this domain," she trumped as the apprentice
in the ambush settled uneasily in the bowels.
The evening shadows covering the good earth
hid the dastardly deed,
concealing forever like asphalt.

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Writing is my passion. The beauty of writing poetry is that it allows one to use images to shadowbox with emotions. Writing poetry is the most personal and subjective of all writing.