unmistakable,
the eerie cry of a hawk—
not a cloud in the sky
Gray morning. Outside the air is cool and warm. It’s the humidity. A new bird in the tree next to the window is calling over and over, softly—ssweeeeeee…ssweeeeeee…ssweeeeeee… I wonder what it is. The call of a hawk, something that I’ve heard many times, is sharp like a scream—kee-eeee-ahh…kee-eee-arr…kee-eeee-arr…
