Owl

Now, none of it
is any good.
She would have snagged
and tangled with
steel wire barbed
sharper than her own
well-edged implements
in a taut shocking
instant.

She must have hit
during dim shifting gray
between day and evening
swooping down low
on ghost-quiet wings
spread to their full
four foot span
to snatch and grapple up
a mouse or gopher,
then hung helpless
by one broken wing
all through the night.

Now, it takes two men
to try to unwind her
and she,
utterly distrusting
everything
since that barbed
betrayal hours back,
glares hooded yellow rage
razorcurved bill and talons
slashing at her would-be
rescuers
lunging reckless and
careless of more hurt
to her ruined wing,
and spitting out
small strange whistles
of frantic defiance
at odds with
her strength and size
not knowing what may come
but suspecting the worst
and too wild, too proud
or too scared
to let it happen easily.