I saw a hawk soaring high overhead,
and wondered what he thought and said.
I watched while he plummeted and flew by,
And yet could not imagine how or why.
Coming near, he cocked his head,
and I inquired of what he read.
“Tolkien, the Bible, and the Bard,”
he shared, uttered while braking hard.
He landed gently, my knee his stool.
“Of what does your mind use for fuel?”
“Much the same as yours, I must say,
but also, of Steinbeck, Updike, Hemingway.”
His eyes were unlike any I’d ever seen,
huge and rounded, incredibly keen.
“No poets then, if truth be told?”
His eyes glittered, a mine of gold.
“Mary Oliver, Dickinson, and Frost,”
I hesitated, my memory somewhat lost.
“All masters of the word and thought,”
he mused, “such wisdom can’t be bought.”
. . . j