He holds vigil in a ravaged tree,
his fields, once tall with corn,
now snow-tipped stubble.
He accepts the unforgiving wind,
the cold, thin light – not wishing
for tomorrow or warmth or spring –
alive only in what is.
I close my eyes, clear my mind
of stubble in my own fields,
gather Now around me like feathers,
like breath.
When I look again, he rises
on fierce, decisive wings –
his crimson tail as brilliant in the January sky
as truth.
Sarah Russell
First published in Prey Tell
Sarah Russell Poetry 
love it.
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Thanks, Steve!
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So beautiful. All my winter poems display my own dislike for the season. I’m no hawk, but you made me appreciate this one. Alarie
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Thanks, Alarie. As I age, winter is less appealing, but I don’t think I could live without 4 seasons. I love each of them in a different way.
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Wow! Love this, Sarah. Stunning 🙂
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Thanks a lot, Ryan! It sounds woo-woo, but if I had a spirit animal, a hawk would be my choice.
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Most welcome 🙂
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Absolutely beautiful!
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Thanks, Al.
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