Aflurry on the grass and he is gone

A flurry on the grass and he is gone. A moment earlier, later, and the green would have seemed undisturbed. No tragic action disturbs it now. Even the birds return, after a moment's strange silence, to feed where the event occurred, accepting it all nonchalantly, their pointed beaks jabbing, searching along the grassy sward for worms. Why can I not accept? This sunny peace a stage for tragic action, seems all wrong. I on my way to the supermarket to buy the meat to eat to keep alive. My blackest fears confirmed I travel on, cultivating still a stupid hope, while he a glimpse of predatory beak, brown feathers, soars squawking above terrified shrill cries.