The Hawks
I want to tell her
about the hawk nest,
how the mother spread
her stippled wings
and brought the chick a robin,
how those eyes followed me
as I paced the weeds around
the dead cedar tree
and the chick cried for more
as the tree shook—
the hawk disappearing
in the fog.
I want to tell her
the new child will cry
but we will carry her
to the garden and the spring
and one day she will fly too
and we will wonder
about things we lost,
forget about things we said,
footprints behind us in the snow,
feathers blown across the yard.
