"The Hawk," a poem by Phil Rice


The Hawk



A long red light with no traffic

keeps the car idling and anxious.

Across the highway, a cornfield

shows the collapse of autumn;

above, a hawk, wings fully

extended. Completely still.


No wing flap, no rise, no

dip, no flutter. Stillness.


The traffic light greens into

yellow, yellows into red.

Dimensions unravel.


Then, a waver. She steadies.

A hawk, perfectly aligned.

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