writing

Circling Hunger

Hawks are circling in Springtime skies
looking below, angling prey.
the boy in the magenta t-shirt passes by
it reads “Real Men Wear Pink.”
Gentle hunter for a modern age.

Something golden, small, successful
clutches the side of tall, bare tree
from its talons hangs a whip-thin rope
snake and hawk, one for the other
one sounds as it moves
one sounds as it calls.

The boy smiles at me.
i nod appreciatively.
i move.
he calls.

Turkey Vultures greedily amble
a black parade at the side of the road
wings spread like dark-toothed combs
the torn edges of overlapping parachutes
crowding in, crowding out the landing space
near their carrion comfort.

The screech owl wakes me,
it’s time to hunt, pretty, open your eyes . . .
we used to keep those same hours he and i
and just now, i am an indigo mouse
small, blue, running in moonlit fields
squealing with fright, but quick, clever.

He clutches my hand, i slither
but allow myself to be carried.
He tugs at my velvet ear, i twitch
but allow myself only to listen.

The hunt grows tiring, a body grows slack
wings fold in to rest awhile, and a jaundiced eye
watches the world grow old around it
but cannot bear to turn the eye inside.

Not yet.
Not now.

The shadow of wings play against the wall
a cloudless nite so opportune,
gathering strength, garnering sleep
he calls, I move.

~ Andrea E. Janda

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