His imperious head and curved
beak make a roman profile.
That wild hawk holds firm on
the dirty, gray cape of a single
eyed highway light while the wind
pushes dents in his white
feathered chest.
He seems indifferent to all the
preoccupied laboring toward
the start of a journey. From his noisy,
aerial view, does he see the cars
as moving, colored, boxes with
trapped people inside?
I have seen that hawk,
casually uncurl warm brown wings
and ascend to a great height.
Drinking in high air and viewing
the world rightly,
he descends a master.
While I, held up in a steel
body with rumbling moters will
press my face, again,
against those scratched
airplane windows. I'll
feel only an old astonishment, watching
the familiar become small.
