The Hawk

First published March 2013 Living Poetry Now / Spring/Summer 2013

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.
Amidst feathers raining down the sparrow’s head
lands at my feet: a gruesome, wind-fall fruit.
All done, the hawk drops almost to the ground,
and then, with mighty stroke of wings, ascends.
I duck, 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 death was not so palpable and near


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