The hawk sits on the phone wire
like he owns the world.
I call my son over and we watch him from the window
our necks craned up so that we feel small
and he, enormous.
His face is blocked by an
intersection of wires, his cream chest
dappled, puffed out at the top
then sloping inward
close to his feet.
Last summer a hawk was in the middle of the road.
I called my son over then, too
before seeing the grey fluff below his grasp
and desiring for my son to look away.
But why, his look said as I tried to pry him from the window,
not questioning, as children don’t, the necessity
of the natural world.
So I let him watch.
The neighborhood children ran to the bird then and
he flew away, leaving this wretched bunny
pulling itself along the ground. Awful.
I called to my husband to end the horrible
suffering. The children were gawking at the rabbit
as crowds do around a tragedy.
If only they could have known to let the hawk
My husband bent low over the creature and shooed
the children away, who would not understand.
My son watched, I am sure, as his father drew
a crimson line with a hunting knife.
My son and I wonder if this hawk, perching now on the wire
is the same hawk we saw before.
It could be, you never know.
We don’t begrudge him anything
A cursed creation curses.
Instead I imagine him groaning, thanking God
for his meals
looking sharp-eyed toward the horizon
as if he can already see the goodness
of a new creation.