the nature of things

Hawk searches in spiral
for something to fill her belly,
keen eye concentrated on prey,
the gaze of attack so practiced she no longer sees rabbit,
but becomes it, no longer hustles through thermal,
but is herself a hot spiral of circular air.
The captivating quiet of dive continues
during strike and seize, only a sputter of struggle
heard across the prairie, the muffled rumble
of gnosis once again splitting, the mutter of death
an empty grassland whisper
amidst wind-swept tips.

fish live in there.
dark pools of harbor.
fins of endless sway and dart.
gills that gulp from steady flow.
hovering in their cool pocket,
whole worlds pass by -
emergers and midges, nymphs
and bits of dislodged scum.
above, hatch upon hatch appear
in the late rays of light,
the descent of manna destined
to again disappear.
thus the hasty grasp
as a casual drift of caddis,
the about face of mistake
made painfully clear,
the split-decision of
struggle or surrender
as line tugs and slacks
toward either death
or the tenuous toss
of return.

Ten days gone
and I return to full flower
of iris, a bounty of
crowned bow beside the window.
It leans in gently toward the pane,
this expiry of oxygen, this soaker of sun.
So much beauty in bloom.
I do not imagine iris
concentrate on their breathing,
nor watch themselves reach for the light.
They simply are what they know to do.
And I am the one who imagines,
who marvels at the grace
of their doing.


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