A Red-Tailed Hawk Patrols

Easy circles, yes, but never lazy—
Those lyrics have it wrong—each careless arc
An engine at its heart, a rust-red flame
Of blood-red purpose. How deceptively
She glides along; then, almost sleepily,
A half-shrug, quarter-wingbeat fuels a climb
Across the currents, past the ridgetop park
Where treeline disappears into a hazy
Gray of winter sky. She spirals back
With feathered legs suspended, searching eye
At work. How sweet the images we call on,
Of parachutes and gliders: human stock;
We dream ourselves beneath her wings and fly,
Forgetting beak, forgetting spur and talon.