The truth is that he likes to be hunted. He wants it, and who am I to deny? It’s not so hard up here, in my lonely spiral, to watch and wait for him to peek out, thinking he’s safe. Unobserved. But, I can see so much better than he can. My vision is crisp and flawless. I see his moves before he makes them.
Sometimes, I dive. A soundless freefall into hunger and lust and want. It’s practice, I say. A breakneck fling, but I never do break. I know when to fold my wings, pull up, move on.
Most of the time, I wait. Perched in the leaves on top of the oak in his backyard. His life is so boring, I could yawn. Every day, the same routine. Waking and rushing and rushing and sleeping. Every day the same. His jokes are less funny. His hair is thinning. I can see him weakening, even if he can’t. One of these days when he least expects it, I’ll swoop down, find the back of his neck. How exciting I could make things with just one touch of my talon.
