A poem from the POV of the hawk. Hope you like it. Have a great day, C.A.
From the Hawk
Time. Some feathers fall out. It happens.
My eyes are rolling now. Got poked
by some twigs. Robin took
my branch, but he won't be there tomorrow,
which is three minutes away.
There. Mine. Now.
Neck.
Achy.
Twitchy.
Mad. All day, looking backwards,
I've been grooming out the bad,
making way for the new.
Belly's rough too.
Hope the boy one doesn't look up here.
He looked.
He cocked his head left, which means me.
Left is my secret smile from his away place.
He's got a voice to kill. Always in the pine.
Even when the sky is white, I know he's there.
Come evening, he'll leave the needles
and fly to the thick, tricky pole.
Lookout.
There, he's taller, but so skinny.
Gave him the chipmunk yesterday.
Together four years now—since the day my Mom got caught on the wire.
A fast flyer, she was.
Wasn't her mistake.
Storms rolled in, making scary sparks.
Old Crow told Mother not to glide so close, but she wanted the fat
mole, and everyone knows it was for me. They still screech about it.
Now most fliers want to help and bring me a frog or two.
My eyes still make me look mean about it all, but the boy one thinks the yellow is all right,
and I guess I love
building the nest. When I'm too tired to fly,
I use the wind, which is sometimes helpful.
Soon, he'll come at me in the air again, but I like him.
He always comes back.
We lost one baby last year. She fell, and before I could claw her up,
the dog was there.
After, I wouldn't stop picking at everything. I admit
that the reddest part of my tail
hasn't recovered.
We have three in the nest this year.
Next week, I'll let them go.
I showed them how to rise up and stay
in the cold,
high part, where it's safe.
I see something moving.
A quarter mile.
I'd tell the boy one, but he'll hear me coming, and he'll already
know.
Now, higher. I stop beating
and glide.
I stop
to thank the sky for the sky,
because even the blue birds know that God
spreads out across the air, and those wings cover all that we see,
even the vultures,
who will one day become
what they eat.
If she wants to, God can fly next to the sun without burning.
Enough of the boy one and being wise.
Planning the dive.
Mouse, you have it coming to you.
C.A. MacConnell
