On The Edge Of Life

Yesterday, I watched two screaming hawks fall

from the sky in a feather-strewn spiral,

exerting themselves to the death,

one against the other;

a beautiful ballet—macabre, but not—

that ended inches above the ground,

and less from the certain end of one

or both of them.

And as the unclear victor soared

skyward,

with the vanquished, red tail of the other

drifting toward a lower perch,

still parting—the whistle of its wings pushing

against the humid sky

with the labor of oars against alluvian weight—

the world, but for its mighty trees,

and these mad angels, vanished.

Alone in nearly spiritual contrast to the

emptiness, of all the living,

they happened deeply,

both of them, in that moment

with more of an emphatic beingness;

that of talons embracing,

even clenching death to the edge

of where shadows hide themselves from

the all knowing light.

And then they sang.