Everyone says you are magnificent
but you are too composed
to be glorious.
You are more like a crocodile
than a bird.
sitting there
unruffled,
almost motionless,
and that detached way you hunt,
circling the sky
leisurely
like a man
on Sunday
out for a jog.
Your yellow beak,
a permanent frown,
you tear off that seagull’s wing
with indifference.
I feel for you.
There is nothing titillating
about the act anymore,
you are just fulfilling
your role
as hitman
of the sky.