by Jeanie Tomanek


by Jeanie Tomanek

Jeanie Tomanek

Jeanie Tomanek

The hawk came innocent

last year to the ledge

of my sealed window

in the glass tower

where we capture blue

in structured planes

make clouds wrap corners,

spoke sharp notes

I refused to conjugate,

and then was gone.

Now he returns

full-grown, breast feathers

flecked rusty. Bold male,

he hurls himself hard

against the shining

twin, yellow talons

out, ready to fight

his glass rival. Strikes,

falls back, and stalks close,

cap high, wings bowed,

cries out. Angry notes

reach me through steel

and stone, but clearer

than before. I bring my face

to the cool mirror, know

his eyes, lit with

a wild sun that dims

the city stars.

Fly he says, fight he

says come back to our

green and brown country

Come home.