Hawks cry, hoarse edge splits sky
and part the once-baled field spikey with ryegrass
and timothy. They land on the cross beams of power lines,
on the high masts of expressway lights, ignore
the hard shells of cartops. Redtails scan miles from
the highest branch of cottonwood plunge for mouse,
sweep deep and low over grass-tips for snakes.
No cloud of wings or chorus of discrete notes. Wingspan
tip to tip, torso from beak-point to tail feathers flash
a cross-like shadow worthy of a son of God. When a pair
mate, both build the nest– sometimes two or
three in different trees. They choose the one most able
to cup life—feathered and waiting to fly like any litany,
like the eager, piercing prayer every wind begs to carry.