by J.J.Morgan

Created on: April 08, 2009

Wound

The hawk with still, brown eyes
tracks me, watches as I dig the stick
to the ground, pull the leg, grunt
breathless, lick the scent of hills all
around while a lariat wind heaves and sighs.

The blood follows; a wild trail
seeps past dark-swept squalls
beneath towering trees, mud-caked
valleys. Secret groves nudge outward
pricked by bramble and crows.

We watch together, hawk and I;
the sun begins to shade its spear
in growing stars. Merlin's night hides
secret glide of wings. I sink
deeper still into the lie
that fear is only in the mind.

The wound grows darker
in the hollow of the weeping willow;
I lie on the bed of river, await
the yawning hours while my
pillow blooms like flowers.

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