Hawks by Ian Smith


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Two hawks I saw sky-riding,
looping high like fighting kites.
High the king and high the queen,
on the field of deep blue silk.

And they wear their feather coats,
raptor-archers brindled, blond;
and they are, themselves, living
arrows, arcing in the vault.

It is so cold,
so close to space,
and so far
from the Sun-warmed flesh of the Mother.