Man Hunt with a Twist of the Wind

Arms like that of a little boy's,
legs that clatter like old toys,
eyes that reflect the crashing of a thunder cloud,
hands that shake as a willow in the wind,
halted by fingers that stick back into the palms,
from where they came,

The feeling of a soaring bird topping a hill crest,
ahead of the pack, better than the rest,
within the ears resound the crack of a thunderbolt,
from a hunter gunning the sky,
and firing their game.

Oh mockingbird,
my heart goes out to thee,
for receiving what you did not sow,
for that you have my pity,
dumb as you were, you had no song to own,
but had another thrust in your throat,
one with a dramatic bang and whoosh of liberated feathers,
without them you fell too far, too fast,
so that I wondered: would you ever be found?