Silent Flight, Downy
© Timothy Black
Silent Flight
The hawk’s silent flight is a whispered
secret, a dangerous secret,
the one you told
under the swing set in elementary
school. The bird banks, a drawn bow,
the release of which
is the quiet of empty institution halls. The bird is a
flying mountain snowcap, gunmetal gray,
the gun you found in your father
s room.
Dihedral drops have the grace
of a smoking rifle shaft
wisp-blue in the rise
of its horizontal shift.
Downy
There is a male
woodpecker
at the feeder.
Looks like a Downy,
red cardinal hat,
black raccoon mask.
A long beak.
Not too long,
sharp. White breast. Black
white
spotted wings. He reminds me
with quick pecks at the suit
we skipped church due to
too many kids at my son’s
party and me
with a bad back.
There were party favors,
streamers
and cake baked
in a freezer.
Click to rate this poem!
[Total: 13 Average: 3.6]
Advertisements