The Hawk

The Hawk

Down the glass tunnel the binoculars make
The hawk flies straight at me, fierce face
Of a warrior in an old story,
His beak like a tool for cutting wire,
His eyes surprisingly mean, like he's mad
I’ve brought him closer than he meant to come.
I’m holding my gaze like I’m holding fire
And the hawk is coming, huger, closer,
So close I’m sure I’ll feel the wind of his wings.
But of course I’m the first to blink. Dropping
The binoculars, I shove him away
And now see him as I normally would, 
Wheeling high overhead, disinterested, 
The way another’s death soars over you
On its way to them. But it’s too late now.
I can’t unsee how I saw him see me.