Oh I am sorry, I was busy playing with your balls

I saw a hawk devouring a dove today. It stood there hunched over its victim, muscles tensed, ready to jump into the sky with its prize should it have needed. It regarded the shadowplay of my existence against the glass, perhaps knowing the boxed beings posed no threat, even when they escape their shells, but still likely uncomfortable that a professional watcher should be so watched. Dipping its head to tear off another cloud of feathers from the prone body, testing the assessment of its safety before starring keenly back upon the window. The dark, intense eyes measured my lack of movement and classified me, for now, along side the nodding branches and dancing leaves. Beginning in earnest to pluck its meal as I went about my own dark day beyond the glass, the vivid tableau of death projected for my entertainment upon the glistening green, rain-soaked grass.

My mind wandered from the spectacle and I unforgivably did not see the end. Wanting to know what I had missed, closure perhaps for my visiting dove who would visit no more, I went out to see its remains. The soul, if there were one, had flown with the corpse, and all that was left was a halo of feathers.