Poèmes sur le thème : hawk

Poèmes sur le thème « hawk » sur Poets.by.

JoyeuxDave Bonta

Cheer

the cheer of hawks a great way off that familiar sound in the east as I walk home
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Amtrak

waking on the train I see a hawk absurd men laughing about office business
ContemplatifDave Bonta

On Pilgrimage

a morning-fresh aroma from the compost steaming in the cool air i descend the mountain just so i can climb it yet again through fog as soft as the moss acorns clattering down the sun’s already out in the valley for the annual farm show and above the gap the first broad-winged hawks of the day spiral high around
ContemplatifDave Bonta

In Common

What does it mean to be average? When a computer averages the features from hundreds of faces, the resulting image will look like a supermodel. This tells us that what is average is not necessarily common, and vice versa. But I love the idea of this perfect face held in common, each of us contributing our own small part to it. Together we are conventionally beautiful. As individuals we can be uncommonly beautiful. first day of fall a harrow’s yellow teeth
ContemplatifDave Bonta

Up in the hollow

A small cloud on the cliff above the railroad tracks— the shadbush is in bloom. As I drive up the hollow on our one-lane road, a red-tailed hawk passes me going down. All the spring ephemerals are emerging, leaves wrinkled and damp like freshly pitched tents.
AnxieuxDave Bonta

Camouflage

Harried by crows, the pale red-tailed hawk glides along the ridge and lands in a stand of black locusts broken by last December’s ice, one more pale wound among the ragged spears of raw wood.
ContemplatifDave Bonta

Evolution

A circling crow turns into a hawk as it clears the trees with their bare-boned parceling of the light. And then those upswept wings— primaries splayed like hands open to the ground— can only be vulture.
AnxieuxDave Bonta

Groundhog Day

It’s not his own shadow he looks for but the shadows of hawks. He has stirred from hibernation not to forecast but to inspect others’ burrows—to scout for mates. His lust is still containable, a faint mutter like an underground stream or a sleepwalker’s obstreperous small intestine. He serves it more in faith than in urgency, a reluctant prophet answering a call, for he’s exposed to the sky in a way he isn’t used to: there’s no grass, no cover, the meadow has a new, white surface & the sun too is strange—it gives
ContemplatifStuart Friebert

Sophisticated Instinct

In northern Michigan the sweep of winds forces the spread-winged goshawks, shredding their grasshoppers, to sit in the shade of fences. They eat with easy purpose, watching the white smoke of men hunting the flying birds.
AnxieuxAllen Planz

The Swamp of Scoy's Pond

A roughcut logging trail digs into underbrush climbs a hill breaks into a clearing fast on swampwater Hot wind maims scrub feints at bracken tussock, pickerel weed' hugging ditches Three hawks in tandem wheel are fibering air In brown murk: the silt planes down script of larva blistering mud Breath nears fever halts altogether as the surface
ContemplatifWayne Ray

Playing Scrabble With

Playing Scrabble with their backs to the window, a red-tailed hawk.