I was born among
speech-prone animals,
blind to all but the sliver
above. I see the hawks
often there—inseparable,
a pair, red-shouldered. Omen
of tall woods and water.
The first hawk oak-alighted
to hunt the bridle path,
the second circling, her kee-aah
letting the other birds
—at the rim of perception—
know of my unknowing?
