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pale (en)chanting
"It's called a gosshawk."  I whispered.

a man on a bicycle waved his hands
if the top hadn't been down on your father's car
i never would have seen the motion.

"I believe it's a pale, chanting gosshawk."

motionless, perched on the traffic light crossbar,
the bird could not be bothered.
it's chest was big as a nerf football.

"They're efficient killers."

he looked at me, the man, not the bird
and shrugged his shoulders.
the hawk waddle stepped sideways and hunkered down.

"He's going to catch a squirrel."  I kept on whispering,
as if the bird could understand.

i had a bike like that, a big banana seat, chopper handlebars,
low sissy bar, and just as many reflectors.
but i was ten, not fifty or more.

"How long has he been there?"

he motioned, five fingers-three times.
the hawk took off and glided onto a squirrel's back.
there was no sound.  the light was green.  it was my wedding day.

Edenton Street and Person, October 9th, 2004

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post #68
bio: nate

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