The Prey I Am

A craw I see, though sitting on a fence,
With impulse not, for help or for offence.
It should have been an eagle in the wild,
The carcass freeing by the fleeing mild.

The craw should know, I even see it sit
Relaxed, alright, expectant not, nor fit.
The claw I feel for, and the raven’s hunt,
And to be dead, relieved by saviour’s stunt.