Lost unto themselves

Four Hawks

Four hawks sort it out—who
will be whose, what interloper
will be run off, whose hunting
acreage belongs to whom.

Talons down and high-whistle
screeches as if someone left
the tea pot on too long scalding
a new-blossomed spring sky.

These are the petty wars waged
every day just above our heads,
skirmishes lost unto themselves
while we busy our time unmattering.

One hawk is very much like any
other—infused with feathers, billowed
with overbearing speed, gazestriking,
much more than merely cloudworthy.

Four hawks sort it out and that is that.
They move on toward other realms too
taken with wind for feet to ever intrude.
Four hawks sort it out to leave me to mine.

Joseph Gallo
April 28, 2014