Revolution in the Sky

There, there again—black against the blue—

the same two sky birds at it;

the wide-winged hawk aloof,

loafing on the wind, above the roof-peaks,

proud of the fear his shadow stirs

scraping over the open-hearted hills;

and pecking, poking at him the crow

(if it is a crow) careless of how

he looks or sounds, raggedy,

harassing his unflappable majesty,

nipping at his underbelly, driving him out

of his cerulean realm. The brass of the bird!

 

Why does this desperate dalliance

that keeps replaying in the sky

of my mind seem so significant:

the outraged raptor fleeing the beak

of a maneuvering, relentless rook?

Surprising, amusing, oddly disturbing—

to those of us duly and ever

overawed by magnitude.

We forget it's neither cash nor renown,

but intent, that turns the world upside down.

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