Hawk, frozen in midair,

hawking around like a fly,

rubbing her fore feet together,

slipping into the deep sky

like a fish,

dying there,

hard as this color of hell.


She spread her wings

and stood there,

took off and watched herself

more than the air, the mountain,

her prey.

When the temperature dropped

below sea level, she rose higher,

skidding into the tops of things,

like her own reflection.


That’s when it happened.


She just stopped,

wingspan terminally measurable.

Who knows what she is thinking,

but the air has captured her,

she breathes on ice.


One would think she would be

planning her escape.


But if you look as high as the end

you will see from her eyes

that she has simply decided

to keep doing the same thing.



Is it the measurement you seek, or the flight? The measurement only measures over and over again to see if it matches the image.  The flight is uncertain, rare and alive.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

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