by Elsa Johnson

Look           here is God     sparkling in the trees                  Rain

fell in the still-dark morning                                   leaving bright

drops        God-traces     caught and cupped      :    in each leaf

a God-mote       —       and look             here too is God’s bright

face                  wafting         lofting                     in the delirious

perfumed air                                and the bees rest in the phlox

so darkly sated              with God-drink                    they cannot

move                

                            //             For days now we have been hearing

first here         then there                    calling    each to each    a

hawk and her child                                    a fledgling       full lost

in the pain of its                                               impending parting

crying        find me          feed me         mother!                  Lying

here   with my knee pain                pained by the world’s deep

need    and pain               I too cry     :      Find me!         Seek  —

2

In the dark hours                            I wake   to some small beast    

in terror            fending off attack                                       In this

too    is the divine                   —                    that face we do not

like to face                                           Then in day    back on my

porch          warmth dazed once more            I watch bemused     

the hum                                and happy-seeming-ness    of life  :

goldfinch on sunflower                                      robin hopping to

feed her own fledgling                              standing in the street

with mouth agape                                     knowing that     above        

somewhere             is a young hawk                  learning to feed

itself                              It took to the air                They are aloft

now                 We see them      soaring      swooping    —     low

shadows        swift across the earth    

                                                                        //                There is a

cold clean current                  hidden        in the day’s warm air

3

Some weeks have passed                              My knee is healing              

It’s been a gift                       to be obliged    to                  watch

wait               wonder                     The hawk child is far ranging

now         flies wide          climbs high             it’s voice a distant

pulse          a language                             passing through the air                                

sharing                                                        information I can only

guess            —          how    perhaps    there is a  vole     darting     

from bush to hole                                      upon the earth below                     

What dangers                of rare devising                              await

 a hawk not yet wise to its world?                                 And that

other fledgling?        

                            //           It rained again               The rain fell in

the still-dark morning           God-motes       —       bright drops

sparkling             —                     caught and cupped within each

leaf                                     and the bees rest darkly in the phlox