Hung in a web of air the hawk
peers mindless at the ground,
sum of his feathery appetites,
a clerk indentured to the thermals,
scanning for his portion the bankrupt,
busy landscape, pure momentum
unrestrained by frigid dreams
of perfect freedom, fatted prey.
His is an ancient heart, quiet
in the rote tyranny of shape.
But into that unruffled calm
as he rolls from his cage of air to become
a screaming hymn to wind flashes
keen the fugitive idiot joy.
Then, in sliced remains, he stands,
tries to remember what that was
that happened to him in the sky,
that ghost in the machine, fire
in his chest. As if on strings
he blinks and flings himself aloft.