On a December branch,
the hawk fattens into a fluffed robe,
As the sun knives through trunks,
the hawk, red-tailed,
strings out its parts dancingly
as the oak leaf—
On a higher branch,
the hawk recommits, reads
Gems bluster of a poignant head.
Eye-stones vectored to
sticks, dirty couriers, shadows crossing.
Diving, the hawkish wind,
featherstone and claw, cuts
land, startled flesh, and feeds
Soon up, it breathes—
to the electric-strung, maculate skies.