To the hollows between the flats and mountain peaks
they have retreated, made homes of nothing and revere
their privacy, neither shy nor powerless, prefer
the wild and all the undefined sensibilities
to glide with Red Tails investigating each new intruder.
You might not ever see them, yet you feel
their presence in the crowns of trees, around rockpiles
and upon the ridges resting, watching—another ethic
here among them, for the living, for all flesh they envy,
yet neither slowed nor burdened by. A flutter in a bush,
a glint of sun on the wing, a glimpse of more beyond
a moment’s pause with endless time on their hands.
drycrikjournal 