Hawk

Through forest thick with thorns, black puddles, and fairies
The red-tongued hawk dove down
Nightly black feather-tipped clouds
At her talons
Soaring in swirls to the ground

She peered from the brush underneath an old garden
Molded black bones of a rotted iron gate
Still as the death, lonely and tired
Yet still unafraid she did wait

As the marsh and its mysteries
To her drew closer
The empty air gathered a scent
She felt in her spirit a deepened black wonder
Her hunger so matted and bent

With great gray wings she assembled her strength
Pulled up her head and took flight
She speared through the air and turned in the distance
Bearing the darkness of night.

Copyright ©2005 Sarah Jean Cuddy