Signature: A Red-Tailed Hawk

Hushed as dawn, the hawk glides,

her wings superior and wide,

and calibrates the wind’s heft

and sees the rabbits scatter, hide.


Drifting free as feral breath,

and feathers falling after death

from sacrificial doves—we mourn

their partners and their empty nests—


she hovers high above the shore

without a wing flap, leaving more

than cursive writing in the sky—

a presidential signature.


Heeeeere, she screams, and plunges by,

tasting with her hungry eyes

a least tern, who lingered long

and missed the mistress of surprise.


We could envy one so strong,

with power pure as hate is wrong,

and vision absolute as air,

but I prefer a sparrow’s song.






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