a hawk cries
under
this low winter sun—
(i wonder if hawks pray
for the return of the
light....)
with a few strong
wing-beats
and supreme aerodynamic
design,
the great talons let go
and glide out over snowy
expanses....
(the effortless mastery
the inborn skill
the unquestioning quest
under all conditions
slay me....)
while we cower or shiver or
snuggle-in
and count the days to
longer light,
to hope and warmth—
in the face of our constant
human doubt—
our frantic celebrations
and incantations,
the hawk searches for food
regular as the sunrise—
surveys the ground
rides the updrafts
expends its precious energy
when necessary....
all its movements efficient
and filled with a grace
so stunning
that we stand still
and thrill to its
shrill call
floating
from the heavens—
(a place we can never
put our bodies
on our own....)
the hawk’s daily sky-sail
implies ‘where’
not ‘if’—
this is faith:
outside of our suffering
thoughts
all of nature functions in
flawless rotation....
every day
demonstrating
the perfect operation
of mystery....
________________
©2013
beth anne boardman
