We had an understanding, this hawk
and I. I gave him mouse meat
to hunt and he would catch it and eat.
I would not try to touch or tame him
and he would heal his hurt wing.
I gain no scars nor lose no skin.
This hawk is wild! Neither pet, nor kin
though perched proudly in his own room in
my house.
The hawk hops from perch to floor
and cries at the hidden sky during
the night under a safe roof watching,
watching the street and the yard,
watching his home and mine.
Until he is healed and leaves me,
leaving a cry as he does,
but for his friend the sky
and not as thanks,
though his reunion and
the cresent scar, left on
the back of my hand
from when I forgot
and he reminded me,
are all I need
as thanks.