This morning
the hawk
rose up
out of the meadow's browse
and swung over the lake-
it settled
on the small black dome
of a dead pine,
alert as an admiral,
its profile
distinguished with sideburns
the color of smoke,
and I said: remember
this is not something
of the red fire, this is
heaven's fistful
of death and destruction,
and the hawk hooked
one exquisite foot
onto a last twig
to look deeper
into the yellow reeds
along the edges of the water
and I said: remember
the tree, the cave,
the white lily of resurrection,
and that's when it simply lifted
its golden feet and floated
into the wind, belly-first,
and then it cruised along the lake-
all the time its eyes fastened
harder than love on some
unimportant rustling in the
yellow reeds-and then it
seemed to crouch high in the air, and then it
turned into a white blade, which fell.
“Hawk”
*
~ Mary Oliver
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