A hawk circles over the ridge

higher and higher, until the line it draws
is thinner, fainter— Plumed, taloned, sprung,
targeting; on the way to becoming gone, out
of sight, and finally out of feeling’s range.

Something of that wild heartbeat once burned
its bronze tattoo from the inside of my chest.
See the gouge-marks on leathered flesh?
Evidence it wasn’t all fetters and stays.

But oh that velvet hood is soft and hides so well
the liquid glint in the corner of each eye.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.