The hawk does its best killing
in mid-flight, in clear sight of the sun.
After grooming its chest
it’s been known to divide up the survivors:
those with bulk, those with conscience
and those who have always remained
in the throes of indigestion.
Mores snores from emergency,
its windows streaming with casualties.
Nowadays we’re conversing with shadows
when once we wrenched our heads from the ground
and took the wind to our hearts
with the savvy of those who had once
lent their bones to the storming of heaven.