A hawk sits
at the edge of sunrise,
a desolate perch against the growing blue,
swollen feathers braced against the frigid morning as
I run by on
this February morning,
disappointed with my life yet
still moving forward, running on old, skinny legs,
hoping,
clueless,
fragile.
A hawk sits
at the edge of sunrise,
her silhouette black against the growing light,
at the edge of the lake where I
run by on
this February morning.
