The hawk had a squirrel up in our eucalyptus.
Mockingbirds dove at them, persistent, fluttering, loud.
Sudden chaos in my favorite tree.

"Get the camera," you said. "This is nature up close."
"This is bullshit," I muttered. But I moved slowly 
Toward the cabinet so as not to disturb the ruckus.

It had been one of those days — perfect and common —
Until this. We'd slept soundly and woken smiling.
No earthquakes, hauntings, or nightmares to report.

We drank coffee by the window,
Crossed our ankles and foolishly 
Fell in love with towns in the distance.

The crossword delivered its usual madness:
A river up, something Latin down. Nascent 
Thoughts of returning to bed. Then the screams.

We rushed to the window. 
Was there blood? Piles of guts?
Such things we could no longer stomach on the news.

Not allowed on the weekends, we vowed.
This was our doctrine of peace, perhaps vanity,
To maintain a cocoon undisturbed.

Our camera zoomed in on the hawk's bloodless eye,
The squirrel's matted fur,
The mockingbirds, brazen with argument.

We hadn't held hands for such a long time.