Sparrowhawk

The bones of a dead thing,
a skeleton crow
lay spread-eagled on the tailwing
of an old airplane
just inside the museum hangar door,
picked clean,
no blood,
no scattered feathers
though I discovered them later
in other places,
no flesh except for the head.
I wondered what predator had done this
and then I felt the raptor swoop down,
touch my skull with lethal talons,
watched it rise up on broad wings,
weave in and out, up and down
between roof rafters and trusses
to rest on a high perch,
where it eyed my fascination.