HECTOR

No more prowling his domain, no more passing with disdain.         No more, the fatal spring as bird is caught, then sentenced in his private court.          Fine figure no more, he makes his last go round, then seeks a rest profound.          A safe and cozy bower will be his last bird hide, so lays his head sans pride.          His eyes see very little now, they stare, then slowly glaze, his heavy head he cannot raise.          The setting sun moves on and shade creeps in, a shawl, the cold night air stills all.          The time had come to leave and so, in time he did. Under the moon from life, he slid.          Mourned only by the few, by others just remembered. Nothing left but bones distended.