The robins flutter-bathed cautiously around me.
I on the lounge, I laid with my book.
The wrens fluster-sung to my proximity.
The chicks demand-chirped from their nook
inside their wood household
the round eyehole at eye level.
A black shadow crossed my ankles.
Above the cool shade of the pines
circled the white wings.
Never a flap, never a flutter
never to sing, the hawk clockwise soared above me
four times and gone.
Gone the chirps of chicks
the splash of robin, the complaint of wrens
the whole garden opened and silent as the book.
Silence is the hawk.
Above cool shade above songs of others.
So high, only to know his only friend
the sun hot white constantly upon his back.
