Languid for the past hour at least,
he preens and stretches and skulks there
as if he were the lone leaf
left to winter on the bare branch,
heavy enough to sag that limb,
to bring gravity to bear
on January’s dark mesh of woods.
Yet so easily does he hide:
his colors, the trees’ colors;
his hunched shadow, their twists and bends.
The smaller birds and squirrels,
who no longer seem to care
or notice their hunter is near,
are silent once he takes to air.
When he puts on his cloak of air,
they feel his hunger come near.
Smaller birds are the first to scare,
though I know he prefers squirrels.
Today may be the day it ends,
the day rodent guts color
the ground, the day down, fur, and hide
fall onto the carpet of woods.
Loss can become too much to bear.
The old hawk tears at his prey’s limbs,
indifferent on his high branch.
I know it’s past my time to leave.
I no longer belong here
so close to the old hawk’s feast.
—
Paul Jones’ poems landed on the moon in February 2024. His books are Something Wonderful (2021) and Something Necessary (2024), both from Redhawk Press. Recent poems appear in Hudson Review, Salvation South, Southern Poetry Review, New Verse Review, and in Best American Erotic Poems (1800-Present). Jones was inducted into the NC State Computer Science Hall of Fame in 2021. smalljones.com
