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.
