Hawk in My Hand


A hawk
hangs from the wind
over the road ditch.

Looking up
I feel my own heart
pulse in my chest
in time with the hawk’s
heart-beat in my wrist.

The hawk,
balanced on air
knows the heartbeat
of the mole.
The mole’s veins
pulse with blood
made of plants.

The hawk tastes
The mole’s heartbeat,
stoops and kills and eats.
The plant’s blood,
the mole’s blood,
throbs in the hawk’s heart.

The plant,
the mole,
the hawk,
and the wind
drum in my wrist.

I hold
a hawk in my hand.

The hawk
holds me.

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