Bands of light and shadow
play against the trees,
the sun setting behind fences
lining the lonesome road.
A hawk sits high on the wires
stretching from farm to farm
linking lives unknown.
Surveying the field
for a mouse, vole or shrew,
He waits in solitude
calm, deliberate, deadly.
The fields lie fallow
with an expectation of spring.
Snow clings desperately in the shadow
of hillock and furrows
refusing to yield to the sun's warmth.
Only an fleeting glimpse of green
promises that resurrection is near.
I watch the hawk,
sitting high above me
as I stand in the curve of road.
He turns his head and for a moment
we see one another,
eye to eye.
His amber glance seems a harbinger
of warmer days and lingering light,
before he breaks away and soars
lost against the glare
of the setting sun,
flying into the darkening night.