She Never Saw The Ambush Coming

It was silent, but I saw it.

I swear it was a bullet.

Even though I know the human eye can't actually see bullets moving.

It came down over the roof of the building, and whizzed to the shoreline so fast it couldn't be anything but a bullet. Like a shot fired from a cloud.

But it was a bird.

A falcon, to be precise. And that son-of-a-bitch was flying so fast and so low and wings tucked in so tight that I literally mistook him for a bullet.

But it could have been a her.

I couldn't tell, he was flying so fast.

Scooped up a baby Tern, and the little chick never saw it coming.

An Arctic Tern, to be precise.

Like scooped it right the fuck up, and that airborn assassin never even spread his wings. It was moving so fast, he knew that if he skipped a beat then the parental Terns would launch after him.

And launch they did.

About two dozen of them. They rose out of the rocks and rocketed so fast and so hard and screamed so loud that that falcon knew it was a moment of truth. 

Life or death.

Eat.

Or be eaten.

That falcon had just gained about a third of its body weight when it snatched that chick in its talons, but damn he was still flying fast. Wicked fast. And he had the element of surprise on his side.

Caught us all off guard with his aerial ambush.

He pulled up to about a forty-five-degree angle, then those enormous grey wings emerged, and he suddenly looked like a fighter jet. That damn speeding bullet had pulled a Transformer in mid-flight and went from projectile to an F-16. And he was in full-on after-burner mode.

Only now this mean ass fighter jet was being chased by about two dozen, pissed-off ballistic missiles looking to rip him out of the sky.

For a moment, I wondered what would happen if the enraged, almost as fast Terns caught him in mid-flight.

Would there be an aerial battle?

Would I see a puff of feathers and then bird debris falling?

Would one of the parental Terns catch the falling chick?

Or was it all just a futile exercise in the survival of the fittest?

That falcon ripped that chick apart. Ate the fuck out of it. All that was left was a tiny beak and a piece of a fuzzy foot.

The Terns went back to whatever the hell Terns do when one of their chicks gets shredded.

I stood there watching for a second longer. Not sure why. Maybe the romantic-vigilante part of me thought a Tern posse would form up, and they'd go exact revenge on some unsuspecting little baby Falcon somewhere.

The show was over.

I sat back down to finish my food. I'm not even sure why I even stood up and walked to the window in the first place when I had fish n' chips waiting for me.

I ripped that fish apart. I ate the fuck out of it. All that was left was a tiny piece of breading and a half-burned chip.

We're not much different.

Are we now?

*** Author's Note ***

I sat on this story for eight days.

It kept playing through my brain. The birds, the beauty, and of course, the brutality of what I had just witnessed.

The lessons I was pulling from this continued to morph.

I'd wake up, and I'd consider this simply the cycle of life. Another day I felt a sadness knowing the chick's demise and realizing this happens in inner-city America too.

And finally, I knew I needed to hit "publish." To simply put this piece out into the world and allow you, the reader, to apply your own meaning.

And apply it, you must.

Because the more profound truth is that the only meaning that genuinely matters is the one you give to it.