I saw a hawk perched on a saggy power line
that trembled and swayed beneath him.
I wished him to be a hawk on an oak limb,
a branch thick like a dinosaur neck,
for he was a fearless T-Rex-riding hawk.
In mirrored reflections from passing chrome and glass,
he was a picture-serious hawk, like a hard-shouldered,
straight-backed soldier standing at a funeral for the fallen.
He was a twenty/twenty tearless hawk.
The skinny sky above the power line was blue and the clouds were white.
He wished to ride a fierce thunderstorm, self-balanced,
confronting Walt Whitman’s storied lines—contingencies
to also include night, and hunger, ridicule, accidents and rebuffs.
No ducking and covering like some fairweather sailor,
feathering wing-on-wing in this high-dollar gale,
soaring, yellow watery eye yet unblinking,
daring lightning bolts to even try,
calling cross-bone warnings down on soft wet prey,
Do not misjudge this rainy day’s purpose!
Leaving the line, departing substance, he flew,
lifting up through presence to essence:
the Alpha and the Omega.