The Hawk by Sharon H. Smith

He was close enough
I could see his armature, his chest
like finely layered lace,
his feathers like ligature
on sheet music.

I couldn’t imagine his weight,
but his presence had weight.
He looked at me with just one eye
small and marbled.
A yearning, a missing?

Above him the clouds breathed,
tumbled, broke. The sun spun
in the sky. Still he stayed
on the railing,
eye to eye with me.

It was twilight when he turned
his head, lifted his wide wings.
I was still watching him
as he became a star out there
in the darkening sky.

# # #

Sharon H. Smith is curious, seeks out new experiences, and has a drive to share them. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and frequent collaborator, architectural photographer David Wakely. She fills her heart weekly as a volunteer with Food Runners and is a champion of, and volunteer at Creativity Explored. She produces Birdland Journal, featuring pieces written by Birdland Retreat participants. Her poetry has been published by Haunted Waters Press, Laguna Writers of San Francisco, Gravel literary magazine, Tell Us a Story and Eunoia.

Photo credit: KDSPhotos

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