The Divinity of Hawks


The proud hawk on the twisted branches of the old cottonwood

Dark form against the spring sky

The violence of heaven in his merciless gaze

Unfolding the great sails

Stepping from his high perch

The murky shadow over the sunlit grasses

A bright death beneath the great wings

The sharp beak red in the young sun

These notes in the grand symphonies of the earth sustained in rites of blood


 

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