I shouldn’t be so worried about a hawk.
I keep dreaming of her falling from the sky 
barreling and twisting with wings spread,
careening so fast her red tail flashes by
and fills my vision with feathers
that make me think of rust and blood. 
My stomach is in knots as I drive
past her regular hunting spot 
to find the perch empty again.
know it’s silly. To worry.

She’s wild. She’s just moved on,
irritated after an eager farmer
bush hogged all the broom sage down
and the tasty little field mice
took off for better cover.
I’m worried about her,
a broad shouldered red tailed beauty
out there in the air on her own.