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.



A young man stands
on the bank a river
and sees the water
toppling over and around
uncaring stones.
Halfway up the slope
of the great mountain
an old man steps
from his small hut
looks down
at a hawk circling
the river, watching
for the glint
of a passing salmon.
From its aerie
in the crags of the mountain peak
an eagle peers
at two men, a hawk
and a ribbon of water.
Only the passing cloud
sees the great mountain.