CITY HAWK

I

A hawk hunts the grass between east- and westbound lanes of I-480. It walks stiffly, swinging brown and white tail feathers, lowering its hooked beak, looking for carrion.

The speeding traffic should scare’em. Yeah, it should. But he ambles along like an old man field-searching for flint arrowheads, or, like an old woman picking berries from a thicket.

To the hawk, the city hawk, the verge is a bank---the light pole a tree---the pavement a river---the cars a current with a rubber-asphalt roar---rushing water. It should scare’em. Yeah, it should scare’em.

II

A hawk perches

the arm of

a streetlamp

one of many

lamps lining

the highway

(two-way river)

He sits

and watches

for something

moving and small,

he sits---for he

has nothing else

but to do

He sees a jittering

black dot, hunger

aches hollow bones

and he dives, tall

buildings, traffic about him