Hawk

A scythe of shadow skips through tree trunks, cuts 
the greening buds; it chips cooled rocks. 
Noiseless. I halt, turn to find the sun’s light 
but spot instead wings of the hawk 

circling in a wind, scanning distant ground. 
Space is flattened with each swipe: day’s 
being hatched. What’s left to make me understand 
I’ve just been sighted, scratched as prey, 

spared a forest death in mud, among stones, 
by designing eyes past measure? 
Not vole, not chick, but no longer their stranger, 
kin by tremor of cut, I freeze— 

like these others without cover, made dark 
by the shadowing swoop of hawk.