He glides the air currents,
an i’o, Hawaiian Hawk,
our school’s aumakua,
skimming the contour of land
where heat rises from mountain slopes
of profundity and history,
the same slopes which once echoed battle cries,
the same slopes which once ushered 
sea-faring canoes from Samoa,
the secret priestly kahunas,
the same slopes that witnessed the birth
of King Kamehameha, the conqueror,
the same slopes that witnessed the secret burial of bones,
that witnessed the death of the first people,
the small people, the stone builders,
who gathered to trade fish, and kalo, and sweet potatoes,
the profound slopes.

Cool air sweeps up from the sea,
a vector of mauka and makai,
a surfer’s paradise.
He rides the winds of Kohala,
the ancient slopes,
Kohala Mountain,
his brown feathers glint red with sunlight.

We watch below,
the last day of public school, 2021,
teachers with pandemic masks off
gazing intently, in awe,
from the shade of afternoon
we watch his outstretched wingtips
move in timeless slow motion,
tilting and circling in blue sky
as if to say good-bye.