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.