The red-tailed hawk pierced my
section of sky. He was strong,
focused, deliberate. Like a sky sculptor.
He may have power over his currents
or it may be the wind gives up
in the face of stern beauty.
There’s no replacing touch, unseen.
Lights are a distraction from the wind
slapping me in the face but
I don’t notice the pain really.
She’s lingering like a wounded firefly
somewhere amid the hedges
but I don’t think her wings ever worked.
Choosing to stay still is a myth.
I’ve taken to wearing moonstone
more frequently than pearl
and I like to dream about trees.
Like soft rock in a cool climate, I am
shaped, turned, colored by incessant
banging of sunbeams on mountains.
The softest parts haven’t worn away.
They had trouble keeping pace
in a wood of succession, not quite
understanding they were lost.
The horizon is like a make-believe friend
when deep in the forest; a gust of
comforting warmth a welcome mystery.
Endings are life-affirming and rhetorical.
The Word Rummager 
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