Country roads don't take me home anymore;
it's the hawks.
In a beat-up truck
throwing dust into the sky,
I'd watch black specks against blue
wind-hunting rodents.
Now, while I walk
through the hills
cutting across the grasses
I see monster hawks
in the high branches of old dead poplars
planted for windbreaks.
The bird's weight makes the spire bend.
They are always still,
watching, waiting, with eyes
that follow: dark birds of prey
in the top most branches.
But, it is only when I walk,
and only when I walk alone.
first published in WindRow, 1984
