The hawk came down before he came
and broke its neck against the pane.

In an old story that I teach,
love enters at the window’s breach.

He set no tasks: I set my own
and stitched the seamless sark alone.

I washed it in the rainless well,
I dried it where no blossom fell.

I laid it folded at his door.
He answered not. He came no more.

What’s whistled down the wind goes free,
but no one asked the hawk, or me.

All autumn on the dappled walk,
they left the body of the hawk.

Moonlight unstitched it where it lay;
I watched it lighten, day by day.

Cold bleached it pale and wore it thin,
hollowed its eye, its beak sunk in.

A checkerspot rose from the breast,
each lost thing gathered, repossessed.

Let him go call the feather home
and knit the wing again to bone.