Where No Hawk Is
A harrier glides
low over waste land
where bitter salts stand
from run of spring tides
By an overpass
a masked kite dangling
from feathering wing
studies withered grass
No desert so sere
an eagle’s shadow
on the reach below
does not kindle fear
But from the clipped green
where we take our ease
by the neat, pruned trees
falcons won’t be seen
Where tidily boxed
life does not do hawks
