The Hawk
September 3rd, 2007
I feel her broad span’s pulse
& know to put away the brush,
paints blanched of color with each pass.
No cry or claw, just arc of wing,
blacking wing soft slits the sky again,
blading wing through all my lying canvas.
Naked struts & timbers grid behind –
crooked weft of snapping woodbone –
endless splinter, endless rot, unashamed.
