A river,
a bridge.
A hard faced hawk
over the water
as I passed.

A mountain-stone in Georgia.
Peregrines on updrafts
hovered six hundred feet above
the ground, ten feet off
the edge of the cliff
where I was standing.

Were those eagles, there
above me on a Portland street?
Were those buzzards above the field
down the road?

Do they ever touch down?
I only see them in trees and on
the wing.  Once, one carrying a snake
let it trail across my car’s hood
but if it came to ground I did not see.

And now the cries of this mated pair in the backyard —

will they come down?

Go ahead and impersonate
kings and queens. 
Assume air
bends for you. 
Claim blood
you only have ever scented from afar.
This is not a country
for unbalanced assumptions.
This place is as much
the Wobblies
as it is the Carnegies,
as much the Underground Railroad
as it is the Border Patrol,
and when you primp and stir
and expect so much, you
should stop and recall that nature
always restores balance.