by Torre A. DeVito
A high-pitched cry draws my gaze aloft
through silhouettes of trees and dappled light.
I squint as some swift shadow blocks the sun.
I spy a hawk, with splay-wing sparrow clutched
in razor talons, glide to an oak branch.
The hawk bends in, its beak to sparrow’s breast,
the feathers raining down, and sparrow’s head,
a gruesome wind-fall fruit, lands at my feet.
All done, the hawk drops nearly to the ground,
and then, with mighty stroke of wings, ascends.
A breeze plays softly through dry leaves
that cling and swirl around on slender stems.
And in the thicket birds begin to call,
the sun still shines, the day is cold and clear.
Strange that world and wood remain unchanged
as if a life had not just ended here,
and the hawk was not so palpable and near.
Part of Spring/Summer 2013