The hawk sits on a branch
looking up at the sky, knowing
this is perfection, lifting up
chasing a cloud, floating lazily.
The butterfly flits from plant
to plant, tasting the fruits
that nature has given her,
perfection in a single moment.
The cat sleeps on a rocker
the breeze rustling her coat,
until waking for dinner
which appears at her request.
We spend hours searching
for the keys to heaven, hoping
to insure what comes after this
life, but so often not living it.
Apple Snail shell
bleached by the sun, empty
happy Snail Kite
Great Egret sitting still
waiting, simply waiting
then flying off
Red-shouldered hawk
staring into the distance
endless patience
Pig frog croaking
but the moon will not answer
we fall asleep
The dawn cedes slowly
to the impinging sunlight
birds greet the new day
The great egret lifts
her wings embracing the cloud
the winter sun smiles
on the barren branch
the red-shouldered hawk awaits
her mate and the sun
sandhill cranes wander
along the shore of the lake
looking for nothing
the moon is a cup
waiting for night to fill it
venus sits empty
I am waiting patiently for her to tell me what I need to do next today. I’m sure she’ll be along shortly with a list. Hopefully, today it will be a short list. And I know that no matter how quickly I get to whatever task it is she assigns, she will, watching me like a hawk, point out my shortcomings in its completion. And I am never done on time. Still, she is largely forgiving of my errors, she says, because that is just the way cats are taught.
The hawk sits in one of the highest
branches of the tree, his red shoulders
blazing in the morning sun, both
staring down on those of us trapped
by gravity, by the weight of our thoughts,
as we pass by slowly below.
From time to time the hawk
will offer a short commentary, never
ceasing her stare, an amiable Goddess
who finds mere mortals pleasant
entertainment, but soon she
is more interested in a meal,
and as we depart, the squirrel
watching from the foot
of a nearby palm realizes
it is time to quickly practice
frolicking among the fronds.
Bald eagle
perches tree top
winter barren gray
and stares at stunted pines.
Hawk, head
tucked under massive
wings reaching
for distant stars
rides a thermal coaster
waiting for squirrels.
Hills cry out
raging against dawn
tears flow puddling
in footprints
of a distant god.
Winter dies slowly
under the jay’s watchful eye
harbinger of spring.
The ghosts of winter
hide behind the Sun,
the hawk hears them.
Frail pink petals fall
onto slowly warming earth
the winter concedes.
The hawks have been circling
more frequently of late,
but in the early autumn laziness
of merely riding the breezes
that seem to pick up in the mornings,
before the midday sun bids them
be calm so it can make its transit.
By afternoon, they tend to roost
high up in the giant pines, peering
down as the flow of people flows
along the paths seeking to grasp
the fading warmth and last blooms
for a few moments longer, and
as evening approaches the hawks
take flight again, knowing the moon
can move the tides, but is powerless
to change the winds which blow
when and where their sky mother chooses.
I am not the least
bit certain why
the red-tailed hawk
chose that lamppost
that day and peered down
over the Expressway.
Nature has her own logic
and we question
it at our own risk.
Staring into his
flaming eyes, for one
small moment we both
saw the foolishness
rolling by below
and alongside us.
A red tailed hawk
watches carefully from the
tall pine that stands
proud in the next yard.
It is not clear for what
he is watching, perhaps
it is nothing at all,
or something my
human vision cannot discern.
I stare at him,
but he does not
return my stare,
and after some time
lifts from his branch
and flies off
into tomorrow.
an old writer and his words 