Hawk In the Sun
A shadow runs across a meadow
a hawk above me on a cloudless day.
A high prescience
for a moment
overhanging a far heaven.
It is not stooping or diving,
not reaching or snatching,
it is not bent to the wind like an arrow,
nor hunting.
When Goshawks hunt
they trace small circles,
seeking a rustle and bustle,
tell-tale signs of scurry.
For now it is not compelled or held
by any thought or sight,
lithely it sails,
nonchalantly counting coup,
jousting with the sun on lancing wings.
A raptor cleaving its authority.
Swift winged conqueror!
An ascendency unmatched
by anything else this day.
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