The hawk at night ©Lauren Helf
February 8, 2021
Three of Us
It's none of my business
what the hawk is up to
but when it announces its arrival
with four short cries,
there I am at the window
peering to find where it has landed,
on which high, outstretched branch of
the elm which contorts itself
like a modern dancer gone awry,
off balance and losing footing.
The hawk is supremely in control,
self-contained and deliberate on its perch
but vigilant, turning its neck
at any movement its sharp eye catches,
such as me, vague shape at the window
trying to glean the secrets
of this infrequent visitor
to the ailing elm
pared now of leafy camouflage
by winter's scythe.
The year has extracted a price
from me and the tree,
both of us rooted to our constricted place
of no prospects and damaging storms,
but the hawk is free
to choose which branch
its talons clasp,
to ride the cold and the wind
into the morning,
the first of us to see the dawn.
