Creative writing course work: The hawk redraft

The hawk perched at the top of a tall oak tree, listening to the gentle breeze. His hooked feet clutching the branch, the hawk was still, blending into the background. No danger was around but the hawk was always ready to become a blur of motion if anything stirred. The inaction was boring the hawk and he began to dream.

While the hawk dreamed he rehearsed perfect kills and the feast afterwards. The hawk dreamed of past glories, near misses and most of all the thrill of the hunt. The thrill was a drug to the hawk it became all he thought about and what every centimetre of his feathered body craved. The thrill kept him going and sustained his otherwise boring life and was the only reason he was prepared to wait.

Without warning there was a slight rustle in the long grass at the bottom of the tall oak which stirred the hawk from his dreams, it was time to hunt. The air’s buoyancy and the sun’s ray gave the hawk a huge advantage over its unsuspecting prey. It was as if the earth’s faces were made for the hawk to inspect like a sergeant inspecting those under his command. The hawk took off with all the eloquence of a ballet dance and the skill of a gymnast. The hawk’s flight was a marvel to watch as every inch of the hawk’s body was sensing the air currents, reading the signs and slowly preparing for the kill. Silence is the hawk’s best friend as it allows him to sneak up on many unsuspecting mouse.

Where the sound originated, the silent menace circled, his eyes penetrating the grass. The hawk was scanning for the mouse that had initiated the chase, adrenalin pumping through the hawk’s veins increasing the thrill.  It took the whole of creation to produce this perfect killer, from his foot to each individual feather. The hawk swiftly snatched up the creature between its talons and flew up. As the hawk flew the mouse began struggling with all of its might against the power of the hawk, trying to survive just that bit longer, clinging to its life. The hawk continued its feat of strength, flying to any place it wants in order to kill the poor creature in its clutches, because the whole world was his.

There was no sophistry in the hawk’s powerful body, tearing off the mouse’s delicate head, blood spilling everywhere. The hawk is the allotment of death and his flight was a path directly through the bones of the living, and into the nightmares of infants. His talons alone were enough to strike immense fear into the hearts of mice and men alike.  The hawk is the stuff nightmares are made of and no animal alive can assert that right. Hunting and killing was what the hawk was breed for.

The hawk returned back to the same branch, satisfied with the hunt. He was no longer hungry, sensed no danger, and began to dream again.