A careful hawk’s as good as a dead one.
Only when stooping from scrub pines,
pitched by hunger at shadows in the grass,
knows it its name, and nothing lonelier.
Same principle applies in calligraphy
and sighting a .308. Spit in your hand,
you can lift a burning branch from the fire
before you think about it, if you think about it.
Remember, and you’ll know why a landscape
be it painted, parched, or snow-peaked,
so perfectly fits the wound in your heart.
Timberlines press their evergreens far north
into the everdark, amid the everwind,
because they’ve learned how to drink starlight.
It may take a hundred years or just a second
to see the hawk you see may be your own.