Above the eastern ridge,
a hawk enters its one figure
of accomplishment for the day:
the widest circle, the biggest
zero darkly brushed against
an unmarked page. I can respect
its talons, the purity of its
mathematics; its indifference
even when, from hunger,
it snatches up a vole or snake
or other creature from the ground
—But never what underwrites
the growing tally of hapless
bodies fallen in the streets:
the poor, the young, every day
sheathed in blood and placards.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.