LatinosUSA

A hawk flew into a window:
delicate, white eyelids showing,
sharp sickle talons frozen.
Did she think she was headed into the sun?
Like the summer I dove deep into the pond and became
turned around, unsure of the path to the surface, to air.

She knew how to tell a story with the slow, sharp movement of a shoulder,
the meat of her turning, dancing through air currents.

Did she kiss the window because she was ready to embrace
death? Ready to usher herself into that love?
When I become a shell, will she already be there
bridging the gap between body and spirit, knowing and language?

Is she, like an owl, most intimate with death
because she is a hunter? Intimate because she is able to make sense
of earth’s workings; has soared high, observed our smallness
our intricate place in life’s weavings, she and I?

If she could sing, would it be the song of carrying yourself
beyond the story you think you know to tell, into the
truth beyond this moment?

Copyright © 2025 Loralee Clark
All Rights Reserved