Quartered Wing
I know his cry,
it splits the muted blue.
From beyond my window,
the Northern Harrier works the sky.
When November unveils,
and even the fields stop to shudder,
though the wood has lost its flame,
the Gray Ghost remains.
The future's past is summer's glory,
the bee, and I, forget and complain,
the hawk overwinters,
indulging the humdrum weather.
We are not captive,
one hundred words move
within the clouded moons,
as we point at remote skies together.
—G. Brunini
8 February 2021
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