like shades of an artist’s paint, the poet and the politicians
play with the subtle meanings and insinuations of
words, at least the animals are spared from this
deception our human languages allow
a hawk dive bombing down out
of a cloud seizing its prey
just barely missing
the ground does
not worry about
nuance unless
you count
spots that
those little birds
and mice and fish
whose lives he would
take without a single word
I hear his shrill cry somewhere
up there in the sky insisting on life
and remember my mother’s story of
a Red Tail Hawk like him starting as a
tiny dot exponentially growing larger as
it folded its wings and dropped like a stone
aimed at her head pulling out at the last second
as she rode along on her pinto pony in the woods
along the shore of Sweet Water Lake where Indians
once waited behind bull rush blinds to use their bird point
arrows on ducks and geese that came too close for words
the dark shadows and the sun above play in downed leaves
creating a mottled checker board of light in a thousand shades of gray

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