The Killdeer (National Poetry Month Day 8)

Mild meadows hold her clutch;
small beak searching out the brush
as grass bends low by crafty touch.

She spies the eyes burning bright;
but valiant wings dare no flight
she flees the nest, chirping fright.

Her stilted legs lack for grace
but they bear her far apace;
far behind, snouts seek the trace.

Cornered she turns on her foes
teeth agleam in pearly rows;
and back through the skies she goes

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