"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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