Poem of the Month


Late morning and long into afternoon

the red tail hawk perches in the fir tree.

Its head swivels, yellow-beaked, looking

for prey. Earlier a mouse in long grass

came close to losing out, barely escaped.

Like a sumi brush stroke the bird sits

at the edge of the half acre, watching.

In the savor of February air

I remember my father’s last visit

to a different house, where children were young.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror,

the door slightly open, saying to himself

Patience. Patience. Didn’t know he’d been

seen. Soon I will have all his nervous gifts.