The Abrupt Edge
Iain Haley Pollock
In the thicket
sloping up
from the house,
a chorus of birds
warble, celebrate
the quiet majesty
of day come to dusk.
The red-tailed has
his call too, war
shriek of a soldier
accustomed to the field,
a call to mark
hunting ground,
to raise the alarm
to his mate and young
when danger—a horned
owl—wings close.
For now, above
the songbirds,
he is oak-perched
and silent,
some quarry’s fate
in this moment, at once,
unknown and certain.
One sparrow flits
past the abrupt edge
into view, out
of the thicket’s shelter
into the yard,
the open. And
for what? A seed
spilled in the high,
late summer grass,
a seed to crack
and throat down
in the imagined
safety of the nest?
The hawk dives
hard, sharp shins
and talons thrust out,
violent and awkward,
none of the falcon’s
streamlined grace. Dives
silently until, too late,
the sparrow hears
the menacing wind
of descent
in the hawk’s
mottled feathers
before, not the talons,
but the sheer force
of impact crushes
bone and organ
into the ground.
Knocks hunger
and what remains
of song
from a small,
hollow-boned body
too enraptured
by orange dusk,
by the promise
of day’s last seed.
A body too ignorant
of sky and above
to have been afraid.