The hawk sits, always the same spot on the powerline,
above where the road curves, a sudden, harrowing bend
that you find on country roads, where less aware drivers
are likely to find themselves in the ditch.
Each morning, there he is, drawn up shoulders,
and from that hunched burl, the sharp skinny hook of the neck
rising to a surprisingly small head,
downturned to stare intently below, as if concentration alone
could manifest a mole. His stiff stillness
says “don’t bother me,” like every father figure
I’ve ever known, hell-bent on completing tasks
even though the noise of children threatens
to interrupt. Let the mother take care of the cries, the tantrums,
the unresolved disturbances. He has mouths to feed.
Below, a switch in the grass then the audible throb
of a pulse, ready to be stilled, calls him
and he answers. With a snap of his wings
he dives down, unencumbered, and so,
successful. Beak full of blood, he flies back to the nestlings,
delights in their quick gulps of meat, red open mouths
begging for more. Soon, he shakes his feathers
in agitation, lifts one restless claw, stomps the other,
misses the solitude of hunting, flies off
when the squabble for the last piece begins.