I call him Fenimore
To remember his species.
I walk to the mailbox
And look to see him,
Cased against the cold
In his feather cocoon of wings and trapped air.
He seems less a hawk than
An owl with towel-dried hair spiking out in odd directions,
Dawn’s white light painting him on his perch
Atop the pear tree.
He is not looking for me, I know,
But for breakfast in the fields.
I have seen him drop—a lightning bolt—
Snatch a field mouse,
And sail off to a pine,
Without a thought at my passing by.
Yet this morning and last,
He tipped from his branch at my approach,
And glided silently to the woods.
Our broken understanding stings,
For I have never posed a threat
Nor broken pattern, my walk habitual.
Yet I see that embedded in my paths are expectation’s seeds,
The black earth
Yielding a flowering that would be love.
For not one of us wants to walk on
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