Over barren fields harvested
sits a hawk in patient vigil
top a post, still and observant.
He knows he will at last prevail,
he does not doubt a mouse will come
gleaning grain left behind,
it is what mice do, it is
what he does, it its the order of things.
A walnut tree stands stoic and sure
while steadfast and immovable it is anchored
season after season year after year, it
bears its yield to all who seek, it
gives, asking nothing because it needs nothing.
On this autumn day the road is
stretched out long before me, mail
boxes reveal homes present unseen
where boys with rakes tend burning leaves,
smoke rising through lonely branches
hovering heavy and close to home like
spirits clinging to corporeal frames
mourning the season gone.
The hawk cocks his head and lights from his post
diving decisively, it is what he does,
it is the order of things.