(no subject)

a hawk is hunting lunch outside my window
startlingly rufous underwing, the bars of youth on wings and tail
working her way along the hedge full of twittering
sparrows hiding in plain sight in the tight lattice of the hedge
bluejays yelling combined warnings and jeers
and the neighbor's cat watching with interest
a fellow predator, doing her thing


If I keep writing Poetry, more or less by mistake, does it count as making things for the month?