The hawk’s shadow is motionless
high in the limbs
against a winter haze
above the alley as he peers
off the back porch
inhaling the ghosts of friends
some of them dead
through the filter
11 p.m.
He is waiting for it to pounce
and wonders if it is instead an owl
as the neighbor
to the East lets his
hounds out
and then back in
when the beast with wheels
to support crippled hind-quarters
yelps
Silence returns
as he gazes at faint Christmas Eve stars
and sips the last of the Imperial Stout
a gift
wondering how the urban bird’s vision
differs from his
Bones aching from the clench of
the steering wheel
along winding roads
mind easing from the
white
line
fever
caught from the country hills reunion
and the stress of the holiday week
He is only sure that he is
where he is
Innards wrestle with the dichotomy
of lost childhood idiocy
and a huge meal
while his head swims in thoughts
of a dead father and the quote
his mother included on the
card
from Hafiz
something about God’s yearning for
“the playfulness in your eyes”
The sluggish impulse to denounce
tradition
and hopes that he is choosing
the correct path
in delicious cocktails
complete the dilemma
South St. Louis dreams
as the head swivels and
the eyes shine
Brett Underwood--Christmas Eve, 2011
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