The Art of the Sharp-shinned Hawk

No glorious orbit over a straggling field,
no plummet to deadeye the harrowed meal.

Those he pursues also take flight,
twitter to hide in thickets of pine.

What matter if branches snap at his scapulars,
twigs reap the down from his breast in pale tatters?

He'll follow them anywhere, pockets
of life compact of seed and song.

He'll tackle wingspans twice his size
whenever they stray across his sights.

Don't offer him carrion; prey must be fresh
when he sickles his name to the favored branch.

Feathers gyre from the sky, of little consequence.
He gives himself to plucking out the red elastic flesh.