It is
early spring
twilight
where the
last of the sun lights
clouds from below
two
hawks, slowly fall,
where the trees are
black
in the distance-
so much
blue light
at home,
I would
be in the grass,
growing cold
against
my skin, the
sudden sweetness
that comes in
crushing it
a
benediction in my hair
those lazy shapes, unseen
that hawks make-
the arms of
God
this air,
where we
live,
between them.