Monday, March 25, 2019


Hawk faces
the setting sun.

Evening comes
behind him.

He knows loss.

enough is
not enough.

it is too much.

Depends on
which way you've

turned and when
you've eaten.

Sunday, March 24, 2019


Hawk watches.
His patience

waits. Hunger
is a sharp-

eyed teacher,
stillness the

hunter's friend.
When the time

is right, wind
will lift him,

the mouse will
say, Sweet death,

be sudden.

Saturday, March 23, 2019


It is the wear of the world
which makes each thing. This shovel

would not be this shovel but
for the work which shaped it.

That path through the grass would not
be that path but for the feet

which walked it into the earth.
All things come in due time as

we mark them with our touch,
as our insistence rubs them

from the idea of thing
to this very real suchness

now showing in front of us.
It's not the naming them but

the working them which makes them.

Friday, March 22, 2019


He drives the sky
who flies red-tailed
towards sunset.

Not wind so much
as wisdom carries
him to evening.

All day is every
day as he takes it,
as darkness comes

and each moment
blesses him.

Thursday, March 21, 2019


Morning and I am
going home. The mountains
move away from me.

Wednesday, March 20, 2019


Stars have died
to give us

the elements
which make this

life this life.
Honor those

dead, the stars.

Tuesday, March 19, 2019


A redness at its edges, the hawk
above the field, upon the failing

light and wind. I see him. I see
all of them. Not to pay attention

would be to lose my way and it's
too late for that. It's too late for

denying I'm only one more
stone thrown against the darkening.

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