Scythe

I dream treason to my truest self,
that which is not born of me. I swallow
the bitterness that surges
into the back of my throat;
I choke it down. I pretend not to see
the glimpse of the kestrel harlot
I encounter each morning.
I whet my beak and sharpen my claws.
She folds her wings and lingers
in the shadow of the eaves of my lids
ever vigilant for new and exciting prey.

I cut her free and I am all that a starling is not.

~*~

~mvh