The last old hawk in this town
just lifted off from the Town Hall roof

and flapped straight over the river,
rising as she went.

I know somehow she won’t be back.
I know somehow we’re somewhat doomed.

How will I symbolize vision and reach
without an animal upon which to hang meaning?

I get an itch in my arms and legs just thinking of it.
It’s not going to be the same here without the hawks. 

I’m trying to enslave myself
to other animals’ symbolic value

but they all insist on living their lives.
How dare they!  Everything ought to be

useful.  The hawks never understood that.
That’s how we ended up here.  

Far beyond the river — dim sighting:
many hawks plunging and soaring.

Such teases.  What are they telling us?
How should we respond?

Is this, at last, the last great war?
I’m ready. i present myself, representing myself.