The hawk need not measure distance.
It need not estimate the time from drift or glide
to the lightning bolt necessary to pluck
the chick from the edge of the yard.
God’s cleanest predator—its beak is perfect,
its talons perfect, its hunger and its manipulation
of air perfect. You have to respect the hawk.
Over the field, I watch one circle and circle
tracing the symbol for infinity. Even at this
distance, I can see the rustle in the grass
that betrays not the wind but an animal. …[Keep Reading]…
C. Dale is the author of the poetry collection Torn (2011, Four Way).