It’s late for mating season but still
they dive and rise as in early spring.
Kee-ah. Kee-ah—sears the hillsides
before the red-shouldered hawks arrive.
Drowns out even the crows. I’m obsessed
with the spectacle and I’ll abandon any task
for their screams. Watching through binoculars
I’m nearly blinded as they cross the sun.
Five, six, seven times a day, they return
from the far side of the ridge. I want
what they have even though I can
give it no name. Don’t say freedom.
Don’t say longing. Don’t tell me
it’s some kind of sign. Can’t the shiver,
trembly as a new born, that comes
with my breath, be enough?