Majestic on the wing,
Gaia’s caped, capering crusader,
I swoop in with disease—
from the Ross River to you—
with compliments of the season.
O lowly human, stuck to the ground—
darest thou to swat?
To kill me is regicide—deicide!—
and you shall incur
the wrath.
Your kind needs fierce control:
curbing, culling.
Populations bubbled over,
festered, burst.
You jeopardise, now, All Things.
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Wordflower 
Audio added!
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The brief for this poem was to flip the point of view to the ‘more than human’
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