He sits like a king
on the other side of the lake
on a high limb
of a leafless sycamore tree
brown body, white bark
facing west, gray chest puffed out
soaking in the warmth
of the low afternoon sun
I have seen him three times
the first time flying low level
seeking solitude beneath the canopy
dodging tree trunks, hickory and oak
clutching a baby crow
chased by a great flock of wailing black birds
He flew over my head just out of reach
Another time he was high
in the hot summer sky
gliding on air currents
hunting a mouse or squirrel
then he dove straight down
swished the grass
wings spread, tail flared, talons extended
came up empty handed
One time I saw him fluttering in mid-air
like a flag on a flagpole
held in place by a strong westerly wind
I heard his high whistle
trying to flush a rabbit
or attract a mate
then he rolled left
like a P 51 Mustang
leveled off and flew
out of sight!
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