MESSENGER
Years ago I turned west into scrub oaks, palmettos
on an old dirt track off U.S. 1.
I wasn't lost, just on the wrong road,
momentarily blinded by sun-glint on water,
when a red-tailed hawk whirled toward the windshield
so close, for a second, we were eye to eye.
Afraid, I cried out, but the hawk knew how to fly.
He wheeled higher, out of sight, I guess
into sky. If I hoped for one rusty feather
I was almost too frightened to stop. But that raptor
glare stayed alert and focused with
only air between it and death. I stared up
at rag-tag trees, aware and breathing
in a dangerous world. Hawk, we endure.
I am still here.
- Bridget Balthrop Morton, 2001, Drought Review |
Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash
your hands afterwards.
- Robert Heinlein
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