Glen West

Another day of gales. Ripples in tight fans
sweep across a puddle. I don't spot the kestrel,
hung motionless overhead, until it tilts

and glides a short way off, then curls again
into the wind, its stillness letting it pass
on some small creature's radar, unseen.

Such serene destruction. O Lord of the rabbit
lifted up screaming — piercer of hearts — what is it
I can't see that hovers near, taking my measure?

Copyright © 2003 Theodore Deppe All rights reserved
from Cape Clear
Salmon Poetry / Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission