There is a hawk on the line at the crossroads
Beside the peanut plant
And Jerry’s Auto Body
He’s there almost every time I pass
Scanning the winter-brown fields
With his yellow eyes. As his kind do
I have to wonder, is he descended
From the same one who sat this line
At the crossroads. Beside the peanut plant
And Jerry’s Auto-Body
When my grandfather and I used to pass this way
He is an inheritor, this hawk, of territory
As am I. An inheritor of territory
An inheritor of memories
Is that the difference between us?
What we remember?
What do hawks remember?
What do they see with those yellow eyes?
Did his grandfather remark, as we passed,
“Look, there they go again”
I can see the stream of wind waves ruffle
His brown mottled feathers. It is an unkept look
I am glad to see the hawk there. On the line
At the crossroads. Beside the peanut plant. And Jerry’s Auto-Body
This is where we belong. This is our territory
This is our memory