Golden Falcon

is a fine cigar, a long smooth bird
I passed out a box of in Boston.
We all got high; now the sun is and my daughter is three
and I still see hawks,

not slim birds – the harriers and falcons,
but the winter bludgeons, red-tailed, red-shouldered,
rough-legged,
that brood in trees as if steeling an evil conscience;

not a time for leaves, a bad time for hiding or fleeing;

you can see them float on wings blunt and broad as sails,
tails like an axe,
wedge-shaped and slightly rounded,
the fine edge honed to a ribbon of white that repeats;

they're hard to beat, can hang so you don't know they're up there,
can attend our space,
time our crossings from cover to cover,
wheel again and wait,
come suddenly and with grace to receive us,
without hate outrun,
make the scrambling we have practiced a lifetime
no longer fun.