Osprey
In a turning acre
the high dark silhouette
of a river-hawk.
Wings sharply-etched,
now it dips, and light reveals
each fine feather
as a clear signature.
I looked and saw
the carving flame of its life
branded, and stamped indelible.
A bolt of breath, a hawkish tinder
clearly reflected on the mirror-mere.
And if
the life of this world
is born of fire,
then this morning
as I looked over my shoulder,
I spied the swift innominate
unfurl its talons
to seize
a wriggling, silver
moment.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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