Buzzard On A Branch

A buzzard on a branch looked round Because he heard a noise And though I hadn't made that sound, He looked at me by choice... And so we stared, no movements made, As if within a spell, With both hearts beating unafraid, No thought to bid farewell... A buzzard isn't much to see, Brown wings, face, claws and beak, So not much of a mystery, Not highly-prized to seek... Yet I knew well that buzzards fly, A thing that I can't do... And when us humans question why, We're jealous through and through... Perhaps that's why I sighed that day, Though he knew nought of this, God chose our gifts a certain way, That's why some gifts we miss... The buzzard turned and flew above, To leave me far behind.. To question, were my gifts enough, Still playing on my mind... Denis Martindale, copyright, May 2015. Poem based on a magnificent wildlife painting, by artist Stephen Gayford nb Google-search gayfordgallery and 'Stephen Gayford poetry'.