A redtail in the backyard,
startled from its prey
as I stepped out to water the garden,
rose with mouse or squirrel in hand
and then was gone.

This dense city around it of no importance —
here was a hint of wilderness.
Its abrupt departure loosed energy
into the morning, which surged into 
my arms and at once I longed to fly.

Forget it all — the city,
its violent moves, its daily suppressions, 
its suspicions and its
easy flipping from embrace to smother.
Forget it all and rise to the simplicity

of soaring, swooping for meals, 
endless hours watching from high above.
God, I said, make me a hawk
and I’ll worship you like a hawk
with bones and blood and implacable eyes.

And then I went ahead
and watered the garden
and picked some cukes and 
killed some vine borers, came inside
and had coffee and searched for hawk videos

while I waited for it to happen. I’m still waiting.  
I’m sitting in the city
imagining not only
that I’m not here,
but that I’m no longer human.

Suddenly,
I find I am beginning
to laugh at myself.
I am not sure a hawk
can do that.