Clear light. Sharp edge of the cold.
Kestrel waiting at the tip
of a saguaro before
arrowing down to the gravelly space
between two mesquites. The mountain shrugs away
a shadow. The mind puts on its hiking boots.
Hawk-high, the view
takes wing
and doesn’t stop. Four Peaks. Superstitions.
Ice on the clouds. No bills there
to be paid. The wind has taken out
a new lease on the sky. The mysteries
take flight: is there a hidden meaning
to the sun today? Why was
the card turned down at
the supermarket? The checkout lines
are busy, but no one offers
an answer to
the question of what brought us here, fate
or the bus on route one-hundred-and-eight.
It’s a day for airborne thoughts,
a day for seeing what
the Red-tail sees
when he wheels into a swaying motion
for no reason other than
to be where the air wants him to.
