Sentinel

I wrote about hawks once before when they
were nesting and feeding their fledglings.
Now in a time of pandemic, two hawks
have returned to my yard, scattering

mourning doves and sparrows, eliciting
the blue jays’ jeers and dive-bombing crows.
Undaunted, the hawks perch on watchtowers
of pitch pine and oak, sentinels surveying

the hunting grounds below. I am mesmerized,
wanting only to delight in their gaze,
their swiveling heads and gleaming buff breasts,
in something else alive in this fractured world.

They startle me with a hiss and crackle,
staring straight down at me, beaks clacking.
In this time of radical separation,
let them fly at me, raucous and whistling.

This article appears in April 2, 2021.