Hawk lifted from the tall dried grass
on the fan of his red tail carrying
the limp gray coat in his talons.
How marvelous, how savage,
how riveting
is the kingdom of the living,
which depends on the dying,
which would not be without
the drama of decay.
No, this is not the evidence.
Stop with your story of war’s necessity.
No, the hawk is not violent,
which is a condition of the miserable and the lonely,
which belongs only to us.
See now how gracefully he perches
in the divot in the tree. How curiously
he watches. How patiently he claws
his hunger. See now his shy wings.
They quietly sweep him across the field in modest victory,
needing no applause, having no desire
for more than his earned meal.