We rest on the green,
soaking sun, stroked
by the flicker of hawkshadows.

I could beg for a gale,
to watch you vault up its back,
climb its round shoulders,
swoop on the buffeting

or bury yourself like a tossed coin,
a spiral diamond plunging deep
with the snap of new weight,
then lost,

but in this peace,
in this peace, what choice?
I might scratch a racing hover
from a sudden charge,
only to pant as you pass
and silent, resettle.

You press the grass
weightless, unfluttered,
while the hawks rise like vapor.

 
June ’00