Standing on a hilltop level with the hemlock tops, the speaker imagines becoming a hawk. She shapes her arms and hands like wings, and the transformation starts to feel real: a trembling in her arms, fingers spreading, feathers prickling through her skin. The language is precise and physical, which makes the moment feel close to possible. Wonder and longing run through it, along with a quiet frustration. In the end something heavy, "some reservation of gravity," holds her to the ground.
The second stanza turns to small children, who "know" how to fly. They leap from kitchen chairs with homemade wings and bring back the sun, the moon, and the stars. The contrast suggests that adults hold back where children simply believe. The mood is hopeful but a little wistful, as if the speaker envies a certainty she can no longer quite reach.