The Hawk

A Poem by Marshall

Resplendent in his sweep he stalls in mid air still
as if the sun held his talons to sharpen the winds verb
against the shrill bursting from this tensed lungs
splitting the arc of swoop into perfect symmetry

He sweeps in one long delicate swirl
and spot on the talons clutch at rushing fur and bone
crushing as it lifts the hare, head darting
this way and that. Up, up and away

into the sky's arms. He opens the chef blades
of his beak and delicately strips flesh even
as the dying hare struggles to crawl back
into life. But its windpipe shatters with a squeeze.

The hawk circles high, testing thermals
watching as the cotton clouds gather around
him and blanket his feast with a light shawl of wool.
He knows his domain well. From here he sees

the hurrying feet amidst bracken and bush
and with mathematical precision he plans
his next course from the skies. Even as grizzle
and unchewable hare bones and soft fur tumble
to earth for other predators to salvage.
Majestic Hawk. Master and mystery.