V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics




At the feeder finches scatter, then,
Inches over the house, dragging their shadows,
Two hawks sweep down into the canyon,
Falling, ignoring paralyzed rabbit and vole,
Wings pitched like sails to the wind, holding,
Down to the crux where day’s pooled heat begins
Its updraft, lifted by evening cool—

The hawks, also, lifted.  If I wait
They will spiral out of that deep cleft,
Trimming treetop and cliff face as they loop
Wider, taking what can be only pleasure,
Bodies held between their wings outstretched,
Back into open sky, where it’s only afternoon,

Night not even a thought—only sun—and all
They do to rise is to hold still.


© by Katharine Coles


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