The hawk comes every day now.
He swept across my vision that first time
seizing my attention like unwary prey
landed just outside the window
and hunched down to stare at me.
I have seen eagles up close
crows, cormorants, herons
all unmistakably lovely
but this was different.
He arrived in a dark flurry
raw-boned and hectic
striking the branch like a meteor
flight feathers ruffling, eyes
glinting dark amber through the glass.
We saw one another. We looked a long time
before he coursed away again
climbing a sharp, biting wind
impossibly high and fast.
Now he lands each day
never twice in the same tree
and stays a moment glancing down.
I greet him with a bow
saying hello, hawk
good hunting to you
thank you for stopping by.
I think the hawk carries me
when he rides through solar fields
I think a wisp of my soul sings
when the hawk cries to the wind.
I feel wilder for his flight
I feel stars between my ribs
my breath flows like wind across feathers.
It may be the ancients were right
and we are all birds on the inside
throwbacks to some distant ancestor
who cracked her way out of an egg.
I don’t know which came first
myth or reality
or how to tell them apart;
like yolk and albumen
they are encased in the fragile
presence of this moment
when the hawk and I meet.
It is enough.
Kara B. Imle is a poet, memoirist and healer. She lives in the liminal space between land and sea, on a small island in the Pacific Northwest. She likes hiking, kayaking, and geeking out on words.