In an afternoon of locust sound
the red-tailed hawk alights upon a
broad and sturdy walnut tree, all grown
alone in meadow gold, turning in a blueness
that swirls tree and hunter equally into the vast
approaching night of moon-lace light, a star-spun
flight of rare delight beyond the ken of color, keener
than an insect’s teeth upon the arbor’s leaves, while
supple greening vines wind mindlessly around each
other for dear life, extending life for sake of life,
unconcerned their flowers at the dawn of day
may serve as morning meals for preying
locusts munching, perching fat upon
the branches of a tree with roots in
that same soil which anchors it
below a sky that knows no
right or wrong, no life,
no death, no other.

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