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.
Wow, Austin, what a terrific poem. I love where it goes, so unnervingly. Thank you.
Thanks David, glad you enjoyed it. Hope you're writing is going well.