The Ticking Timer of a Wet Hawk

Delicate mice and small-boned birds

Are at their safest just after a rain—

When the hawks are wet and sullen,

Pouting on power lines. Their soaked

Wings folded in odd pointing

Letter A’s, feathers looking greasy

And matted—waiting on the sun to be kind

And dry them out, turning them into predators

Again.  

Then those links on the cruel end of the food

Chain can be brave and luxuriate

In the open, munching on delicate shoots

And fallen fruits. Or pretending to be a hawk

Themselves—relishing the apex role by chasing

Pill bugs and terrorizing mosquitoes.

Their feast and bravado last as long as the sun

Stays hidden, and continues as rays

Begin to peak through spent clouds causing the hawk’s

Feathers to warm, puff, and separate.

But it’s so easy to lose time in the sun’s affection,

With the earth dewy and the sky

Cleared and newly blue.

As good times do, it ends

Too soon, like the sharp ding

Of an oven bell declaring your biscuits

Are hot

And golden

And delicious.

Kyle Boudreaux is a long-time educator and higher education professional. He has degrees in English, Humanities, and Learning Technologies—and has done everything from teach composition classes to write SQL code against relational databases. His dog Charlie insists on sleeping in the bed and feels he has as much right to the pillow as does his master.