Two Hawks (v.2.2)

A pair of sharp-shinned hawks

Found our farm. Never

Far from one another,

Perched in the outstretched arms

Of hackberries—trees, in their way,

Probably not much

Older than the birds. I made

Rounds on the tractor, mowing winter

Blackberries, burgundy

Canes guarding thick blankets

Of dead grass—mouse’s houses—

Summer pasture passed over,

Too prickly for the delicate lips of

Cattle. They watched me, these

Two, leaning with suspicion,

Approximating my proximity,

And I recalled when, as a boy,

I raised a sheet of sun-warmed

Tin—a collapsed shed roof—

To discover two black snakes

Tranquilly coiled and watchful,

Dark shadows in the dust,

Flickering forked tongues

To taste my intent. Delighted,

I sprinted to inform the farm
Hands, only to return the next day
To find the metal thrown aside,
And both snakes decapitated.

No hydras here, their

Bodies stiff with rigor mortise,

The tracks of boot heels

Puncturing the dust, black

Blood everywhere. Bitter

Betrayal! A boy, I buried

Them in the stony, splashing

Sepulcher of my heart, left

Decades for the hawks

To find, falling earthward

To soar, winging skyward

In an effortless, unwavering arc.