Hawk in the Tree

She sits next to me on the couch, smiling.
I say, “what.” Mock-offended, she says
“I just wanted to sit with you.”
I try to tell her about November.
How open and bare, how the landscape has changed.
I want to tell her that there are many earths,
each with a sun this bright.

The couch is small and I am in the corner,
bounded by throw pillows and her.
She wants to kiss me.
My skin crawls — crawls away, itchy.
I look back outside. This is my view.
My eyes reach through the bare branches
to the farthest thing I can see.

She is still smiling when she leaves.
As my breathing resumes, I notice,
for the first time, the hawk in the tree.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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