The hawk circles slowly in flight.
Its wings as black as the darkest night.
He scans the field for movement slight.
Hoping for a tiny bite.

With expert vision he does see
Through the branches of the tree
Where sunlight filters to the ground
And down he swoops without a sound.

A tiny mouse runs through the grass
Unaware of what’s soon to pass.
Then with a sense of coming dread
He sees a shadow overhead.

A stab of fear runs through his heart.
Causing him to jump, then dart,
Then scurry with his tiny feet
Unwilling to accept defeat.

Throughout your earth you see this scene:
The mighty swoop, the meek they scream.
It’s all the same strong will to live
That to each soul great strength does give.

Whether strong or whether meek,
It is survival all do seek.
Resulting oft in dire action
Causing much dissatisfaction.

Understand this will to live
Is a force the Self does give
A longing to keep plodding on
When oft it seems all hope is gone.

Whether strong and soaring high
Or meek as a mouse, you cannot die.
For you are spirit at your core
And you shall live forever more.