The man sits
and watches
the red–tailed hawk take flight.
The branch from which
she had been perched
aches at her leaving.
The man leans back
in his grey rocking chair
on the porch wrapped tightly
with a grey picketed fence.
The paint peeled away
long ago.
The man watches as
the bird soars
free over a huddle
of birches rooted at the neck
of the lake.
If the man were to stand by
the lake, he would see the hawk’s
great wingspan cut gold brown
through the clear water’s
surface.
The rocking chair creaks
as the man slowly stands.
He cocks his rifle.
The gun cracks
the sky.