HAWK FEATHERS

Echoes grow louder, the sound
like a landslide roaring closer
and I want to fly—feathers
and wings I can’t have.

No one likes palpating heifers,
the electric air, the clang, clatter
and confusion on the surface
of every eye—a betrayal, cows
ultimately accept, but remember.
For a moment in this life, I can tell—
feel the ones with empty wombs
worn on the outside, on the hide,
each hair like a brittle spring
triggering flight from steel,
wriggling against any invasion.

Hidden behind a veil of tender
leaves, the hawk upon her nest
watches the commotion, allows
the world its intensities, feels
the eggs push against her soft
under-warm, above us all—
an ascension scattered within
greening oaks on little pyres,
their clutch of sticks like thrones.

Some day I shall learn to fly
and feel it all—see the world
from a safer distance, smell its
differences and acquire tastes
beyond logic. I will carry home
every secret I overhear, and leave
them like feathers upon the ground.