• A slow spiral of hawks wheels in the sky.
  • Even in the open you squint to spy
  • their prey and find nothing in the field.
  • One never sees the dive, talons
  • stretched wide, the climb back on
  • thermals that slowly raise the dead.
  • You read the shadows as runes.
  • And one sows crimson seeds
  • where you can't see.

Spring 1992