Two hawks high
in the crow-swarmed poplar tree,

talon to beak, twigs broken
and gathered, hoist their nest

while the season stirs to camouflage.
Atop the stiff grey building

that stands neighborhood sentry,
the same two hawks,

like gargoyles, in the half light,
stand steady, stand still, grey upon grey

upon grey, till poised, they swoop
and glide into dawn’s aboriginal eye,

pupil red, raised in a florid
flag of gold. Laid out

below, their victims, gutted
and stretched like canvas on an easel,

slowly turn, skin
to leather, leather to earth,

as all living things
rise and sing



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