You, like a strange
Hawk,
Live on the wind;
You bring the glide.
You bring the climb,
The vision,
And the furious dive.
How I've always wanted
To be a flier,
To let the air and the sky
Keep me
Alive,
To swallow
Up
All distant
Shapes --
The crawlers, and the motionless --
Like a wild fire.
You are quick
And nearly
Silent,
but for the tree calls.
Perhaps, with weather,
Comes
A sudden, hidden message.
You are safe,
I imagine,
Nesting,
Looking backwards
In the pine.
Human now.
Secret.
Black licorice
and dark chocolate.
Here and there, I step
On the heels
Of your shoes.
Hurry,
Fall.
I look to you for
Wheat
Pancakes.
C.A. MacConnell
