a low winter sun

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