the hawk's head-shifts are precise and follow in rapid succession... and then cease it lifts one feather at a time as if sniffing its pits it shifts from talon to talon, and then once more it seems to be settling in, getting comfortable for a long stakeout... and then it's gone, diving off the ledge, disappearing into the city valley
the high tree hawk scans for prey from lofty heights; the rat scurries - unaware of far-flung foes, but side to wall all the same
hawk dogfight - the chased twists in midair, going talons up
a hawk preens -- a break from unflinching vigilance
I watch the hawk as it sits, watching me It turns away first, knowing I can't reach it nor see it as it sees me
A raptor climbs: it spirals higher and higher,
and what a chunk of world it must now see.
What’s it like to be that vanishing flyer?
Does it feel fear, or does it glide with glee?
It fears like one who knows not what could be.
Like Icarus, it’s naïve of the Fall?
It must know (but not care,) to be that free!
There’s not a chance its flapping wings will stall,
and still less that it will be downed by squalls.
I envy hawks, but could not live their life —
to test air that couldn’t fill my lungs at all
and climb to heights, yet not know any strife.
Oh climb, my Raptor, ride upon thin air,
and when you reach the earth, I’ll meet you there.
I watch the hawks —
watching me watching them —
and wonder how many of them I don’t see.
They’re better watchers:
-less swayed by boredom.
They stand, cloaked, as if in judgement —
Chief Justice of this street,
roving eyes in search of
one false move.
They are literal swoopers.
I’ve been accused of “swooping in,”
but I’m — at best — a figurative swooper.
Watch, swoop, catch, repeat…