July 13, 2018
Photo by Jane Paradise
A Poem by Hilde Oleson
A lone hawk circles, swoops, descends,
One tip of the wing, he rises,drops again.
Graceful as he seems to fall, swift as the wind,
He rises purposely in circles ever tighter,
The dunes are silent, waiting, anxiously
Holding their breath.
Purpose, reason, seem to give power to the dark wings
When swiftly he rises to new height
To descend like a thunderbolt and just as quickly rise,
His conquest gripped in fierce beak, talons bared,
Triumph shining all around.
The silent dunes seem to applaud
While even I feel death is meant to come
Swiftly, in natures speed, to bring a kind of longed for peace.