And there is also time to write about birds of prey;
And this is not figuratively or symbolically or rhetorically,
But in the real, raw gaze of the red-tailed hawks
That glide over my neighborhood, circling the skies of the HOA,
Perching on rooftops, nudging satellite dishes,
As if they were wilted flowers,
Hiding chipmunks and squirrels underneath them.
Tonight, I write about the hawk who soars with effortless grace
Against the canvas of dusk,
And of the moss on bark, and the wind in the pine needles,
And about the river that hums with ancient songs,
And about the stars that shine, not as symbols of struggle,
But as symbols of something more.
I can write endlessly about the chains,
The marches, justice, injustice, and the cries in the streets,
But today, the sun is low, and the breeze is sweet,
And I, a Black man, just want to stand in the quiet of the green.
