Counting Hawks

Counting perching hawks trying to watch what they watch while a speeding car beneath tense feet races to overtake whatever blocks each sideways glance. Fifty percent of all bird songs go unrecorded. Multiplexed avian modulations leave us questioning our own questions. Pylons loop their feelers, thread fragments of electric birdcalls into sun-slashed glass. Eyes wide trying to stay alert to the dangers a highway offers as it dares all to slip and slide into a higher gear of insanity. Taking in all possible flickering’s, peripheral snap shots ticking off images as they disappear into the gone. Hawks don’t sing or warble, their voice is hidden between screeches of triumph and fear. Maybe there is a soft voice for hawk chicks, and their mates ritornelli sub-sonically cooed through a razor tongue, songs never heard above the roar of our own ears. The flashes of sound and sight are blocked by tall trucks the idling utterances of stalled traffic as we wait for the call of the wild to filter through a sparking matrix of thought, but the wild does not call it only looks at us.