HAWK

 

 

A blood-traced

feather bib

blends on a branch

of snow bent

hemlock

below the golden

butcher

of his hook.  

He is pure yank

sabre eyed.

Young raccoon

sprawled across

his January perch –

the hawk cocky

as a bar stool drunk

with a Bowie.

 

 

 

First publication: Canary Literary Journal, 2015