I can see only her shoulder, sitting there, eyes closed, I guess, hunkered down in this slow, steady rain. No roof, for her, no walls, windows and doors. From where I stand, out of the weather and dry, waiting for the teapot to whistle, I wonder about her life, wet, but free as summer thunder, unbounded, but measured like a poet’s lines. She will sit her nest, this Red-Shouldered Hawk, built there with his help in the oak, high up, and stick by stick, without worry and wonder, or woe. Even in an April storm, her reason is life, the warm eggs under her belly.