is something feathery

but even you knew

of its highly seductive danger.

Like you, we tend to revel

in the cloudless sight

of the untarnished dove 

that lifts our thoughts then

sets them down, so tenderly,

in fields of whitening flowers.

But you also knew that other call,

that of the drifting hawk 

who inscribes the autumn air

in mesmerizing circles—

the sort we all made on

grey hyphenated pages

before we actually

learned to write—

that we need consider his 

unmatched sight, his claws, 

his deft ability to snatch up life

pick it to the bone

before we ever hope

to set down our minds

on paper.