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D.R. Goodman Page 3 A Red-Tailed Hawk Patrols Easy circles, yes, but never lazy—
those lyrics have it wrong—each careless arc
an engine at its heart, a rust-red flame
of blood-red purpose. How deceptively
she glides along; then, almost sleepily,
a half-shrug, quarter-wingbeat fuels a climb
across the currents, past the ridgetop park
where treeline disappears into a hazy
gray September sky. She spirals back
with feathered legs suspended, searching eye
at work. How sweet the images we call on,
of parachutes and gliders: human stock;
we dream ourselves beneath her wings and fly,
forgetting beak, forgetting spur and talon.
All poems
are selected by Andrena Zawinski
with permission
from D. R. Goodman's Greed,
A Confession
© Copyright, 2015,
D.R. Goodman. |