Hawk On The Line

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

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