Little Hawk

A week old today already

you frown with ferocity

clench tiny hands into tight fists

glare with brown eyes seeing

as yet only shades of gray

the nimbus around faces above

cradling arms

in sleep your rosebud mouth shapes

tiny smiles and legs wave

like tentacles in constant motion

swimming through newly conquered air

tiny earls like whorled shells hear

voices, their infinite variety

and then the soft mewling of cats

the dancing notes of a piano

the slam of a wind slapped door

meanwhile soaring on thermals

a red tailed hawk cups the wind

with flared wings, eyes searching

out rodents skittering in panic

through the fields below

sustenance to ferry back

to the high twig nest where

her young one awaits

baby and hatchling linked

through the power of his thrice-great

grandmother, a Mandan Sioux

down from the Dakotas who watched

then from her new prairie home

for Hawk, as spirit messenger winging

to the heavens, and now

from the heavens her helping

Little Hawk swoop to earth.