Rasputin’s 13 inches

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. 

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