i am a hawk hovering over a field, stalking a mouse concealed within the grass. swoop go my wings. wind currents spin from my fingertips. swoop, swoop — twelve times i beat the air. then a pause; i straighten, relax, cradling slender weights while the seconds tick down.
poetry is hard,
he says, the rhymes and not-rhymes.
but these things are learned.
then time is gone, and i gently bend, once more a hawk hovering over a field, stalking a mouse concealed within the grass.
