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2020-07-01, poems


the hawk is flying,
one last glide over
mother’s nest over
father’s hunting grounds,
over the dinner table
by the lake,

the hawk is sitting on
the burliest branch in the
big tree above the bridge
where you drove in
a downpour for the
first time,

the hawk is waiting for
you to get to school, to
get to work safely, then is off
to a dead animal
somewhere, just like

the hawk is growing up
as it has for fourteen
years in the same
neighborhood as you,
looking after you,
bullying your bullies

the hawk is dying now,
circling your home on the
backdrop of a blue-orange
cotton-candy sky, not because
there’s a dead animal below
but because it will soon
be dead and
wants to be
buried next to you.