No Long Song
The art of writing and drawing
in books hovers on a fine edge
between subversion and a gesture of honor.
When the hawk comes out to prey
the sparrow, juncos, and jay
sit in the shadow of the leaves
and the wind through the trees
is the morning’s only sound
while the dove feeds on the ground
on refuse and spilled seed
and then at blinding speed
the attack from above
the crushing of this dove
leaving feathers, blood, and gore
and the desire for more. And more.