Beaver Island
Sun disc burns a hole
in the melting sky
above the Beaver Island
trail. Eight horses
nibble dry grass from
the meadow's palm.
Jones Beach
Watch the moon slip
from her opalescent skin
and dip her ivory foot
into edge of the sea.
Again and again she
will dive through swells
and rise with seaweed
crowning her glowing hair.
Filled With Light
Fifty yards
from the river I'm
startled
by a hawk high
in a tree, feathers
willow
brown, gray-striped
belly, peregrine
falcon or red-
tail. I stop
on the road
side, breathing
to quiet
my racing
pulse, bend
on haunches
trying to stay
still as she
looks down,
decides to let
me watch.
Regal, she
puffs and preens,
head darting
in that strange
wobble, keen
talons, razor beak
and eyes. If I
were a hawk
I would own
that branch and
this strangely warm
December day.
If I were a hawk
my misty mind
would be filled with light. Page One
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