1/20/10

All the other birds sing to me
slightly and politely, murmuring
over and over about their
view from a precious perch.
But your cries are shrill and
Shameless, young Hawk.
You scream as though nature's
hand has throttled you by the neck, and
you do not sing for others, and
you do not know who I am.
Your sharpened soprano wail
sends out sorrows darker than
A grey Tuesday Manhattan alleyway, and
pride more handsome than
the tattered Confederate battle flag.
But you do not know what these things
are from your singular perch,
and the most resounding triumph you can
summon is sinking your
claws into a soft field mouse, which
the world never even slowed down to watch.
Your song is the steam of ferment placed
inside of you, and you sing without dynamics and
You cry without feelings.