Morning light dull as tarnished silver.

At the edge of the woods a fallow field
Of dirty snow and the hawk is perched
On a split-rail fence, back to the wind,
Facing the field but his eyes are on me.

We have no common language and yet
We understand each other perfectly:
This is not our common ground and I
Am neither predator nor prey . . .
Neither welcome nor necessary here.

I know not to move. He turns into the wind
And lifts without moving his wings, rising
And then circling over the field, hovering
And then dropping like the blade of a knife
Toward the ground, his wings just grazing

The snow, a hollow where his talons
Stab at the little life that huddles there;
He cries and returns to his rail-perch.
There will be blood there and tiny bones,
And tonight new snow will bury them.