A flash of brown and white
at the corner of Wilshire and Pico.
A hawk. I chase him to a palm tree,
stop, stare at the whiteness of his chest,
the dusk of his wingtips,
the hook of his beak.
 
I rasp at him with the pss pss pss
my brother Ed assures me
will reassure wild birds.
The raptor sits still, observes me
with one glaring eye,
feathers straggling after the rain.
 
A passerby stops, I jump.  
The bird jumps, too, then settles back.  
The newcomer follows my look,  
offers, What a beauty. I respond, Yeah.    
We watch as the bird stretches his wings,
throws himself into the air, hits the sky.  


© by Ruth Gooley.
Used with the author’s permission.