Time for a Jeppe Aakjær!

The Hawk

My greeting, hawk above fir-trees high,

you proudest of birds in the forest!

Defiant you stare straight up at the sky,

your flight is as wild as it’s lawless.

You cleave the breeze with a wanton zest,

with green-tinted eye ever scouting;

you sink your beak in your quarry’s breast,

its right to survive always flouting.

A brigand you are before God and man,

your body blood-red from the slaughter:

the duck’s waggling rump with contempt you scan,

reflected down there in the water.

No love of your bloody claw have I,

but your flight-smoothed breast in all weathers;

your savage gaze from your home on high

and the glint of the sun on your feathers.