THE AUSTRALIAN BROWN GOSHAWK
Iíve heard folks discuss the birds of prey,
Iíve listened interested to their talk,
But few realize the cunning way
That prey is stalked by the brown goshawk
He sits motionless by a rippling brook
Surveying all with beady eye,
Not a thing escapes that murderous look,
Whether on ground or in the sky.
When dawn breaks oíer the hills and plain,
His hunger pangs are taut,
And not until some foe is slain,
That a quiet shady place is sort.
The day starts bright as the skylark sings,
Then comes the alarm call of a plover,
Panic comes to a thousand wings
As the sparrows dive for cover.
Then silience reigns for minutes few
Till all seems clear once more,
Then terror strikes with force anew
And for one thereís death in store.
When his hungerís been appeased,
His character seems to change,
He floats aloft on a tranquil breeze,
Or soars loftily over the range.
Throughout the day heís seldom seen,
Unless disturbed from roosting perch,
And amongst his prey itís all serene,
Until hunger starts the evening search.
Now once again heís on the prowl
And some prey will have to die,
It could be a parakeet or waterfowl
Or a homing pigeon hurrying by.
When the time to strike is right,
He very seldom strikes in vain,
A sparrow will see him through the night
Until itís time to strike again.