Emerging from mist, two field hawks
make a slow circular descent
as though sliding down
a spiral staircase.

Instead of riding thermals or hunting mice,
they glide lower than tree tops,
calling to each other,
sinking steadily to eye level.

Wheeling about me, they move gracefully
on opposite sides of the circle.
As in a trance, my golden retriever
is riveted to their orbits and neglects to bark.

Revolving around us, the red-tails
gradually begin to circle higher,
ascending like souls,
until they vanish into fog.

The strength of their wings sweeping the air is gone,
but burns clear in my memory.
The glint of sky reflecting in their eyes.
The light sifting from heaven.

This poem first appeared in Many Mountains Moving.
Used here with the author’s permission.