she looks like she's draped in a brunette cloak
that envelopes all of her:
feathers of strength, fear, love, loss.
For most of the day she's a beautiful blur,
save for the rare moments she perches
on an outstretched limb of my heart,
or the top of a metaphorical telephone pole
outside my writing window.
It's not until she straightens out her wings
that she unveils a past
that includes Washington Square Park,
tattoos, blues, me and more.
These days, I catch myself looking up more,
wondering, at times, if we are not drawn to the animals
whose existences we envy:
free, forgiving, far from love,
and existential anxiety, disciplined.
Perhaps, the red-tailed hawk is me,
and she a golden eagle
gone soaring somewhere else,
and I am only allowed a horizon glimpse.
Time is flying and
thinking can get in the way of living;
too often we see through our brains,
not through our eyes.
thinking can get in the way of living;
too often we see through our brains,
not through our eyes.