Death perched on a rotten fence clothed in Autumn colored quills in the ancient pens that storied him in the colors of the fields in the costume of a Cooper's Hawk slowly laid his eyes of stone on me. Neither could I move nor stay an arm's reach great and awful silence he commands living things gone still as death itself is still. And this he deigned to show me did not flinch fierce and fearless marked me with his eyes of stone. This - a muscular stretch of wings untiring. This - the sharp sure weaponry of death. This - endless curiosity searching seeking sanctuaries never locked hides thrown open shadows laid to rest. And this - an intellect uncaring cold science mocked congeniality of birds societies lost to appetite ceased by fear. Or is it better angels gave the knowledge of prey to such as these what I will not admit: Hawks carry us away. We will not return.