A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
When the hawk leaves his tree for movement
among the green, when he aims earthward,
the air opens for him as if sliced by a deft
knife, space disappearing into time’s
aperture. The nosing gray vole, knowing she
will cease, sharply screams, screams twice.
The hawk flexes lightning-bright talons;
his wings broadcast intent; close and break
like thunder, dimming June’s new blades.
When the hawk’s blazing claws wreathe
the vole’s rolling body, his gleaming beak
arcs toward the fleet heart, and blood’s first,
deepest drop drops through blue—
the whole sky opens, blameless and distinct.
Copyright 2018 Bertha Rogers. First published in The Same. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.