A Stoop is Close to a Fall


She was not his hawk

None but her own

And preyed upon herself

With talons shredding

No soft hands or arms

but wings spreading

in down swirling push

could not pull her free

To bend the air

Under her and bear,

The weight of death away

To someday when her talons

Were busy with other prey


It was the words that made her stay

Words have spaces

leaving ragged canyons

between sounds

Her fury was not enough

To carry her over

Into the next headlong dive

Wings drawn back

She fell not flew

And struck the world

With such a force

As made trees strain and shiver


none could bury her

Just let her rise again

Now, she sees all fine, sharp

From the center bright skies

Noting every movement precisely

The rabbit under sagebrush

Quivering ever so slightly.

This entry was posted in poetry, thinking in words, Wild Life and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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