asemic ovenbird When you wake, you look out your bedroom window to find a Cooper’s Hawk dismembering a Mourning Dove. Plucked feathers form abstract text on the blank expanse of snow. Red ink splashes over a frozen page. There’s poetry in the hawk’s fierce rending. Here is a gentle raptor swallowing grief whole—soft cooing cries silenced. One stomach sated. One witness trembling as the winter eats itself alive. 260118 what's it to you? who go blather from