Shadow Crossing
Jesse Breite

On a December branch,
the hawk fattens into a fluffed robe,
mousey meanings.

As the sun knives through trunks,
the hawk, red-tailed,
strings out its parts dancingly
as the oak leaf—
wind-shook, enlightened.

On a higher branch,
the hawk recommits, reads
the stillness.
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
chokeable circuits.

Soon up, it breathes—
to the electric-strung, maculate skies.

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