In the morning, the ashen hawk
moves, night spent
stunned at the top of the drive.

A labored trek to the low stone wall. Stretching,
spreading, weighting. A beat and a
heave to the nearby pine. One final rest, then

a painful launch to the sky, trusting
the currents to support
what the injury cannot.

***

Today’s prompt was from Poetic Asides: write a voyage poem.