Red


On sky’s satin sheet, feather-fingers sweep
The light caress from tips of red-tail’s wings.
Drivers ‘tranced in world-induced zombie-sleep –
Mired in their mechanical trappings —
Sit rapt in life’s scramble; their foggy eyes
Missing simplicity’s ascent. Moments
Here hold occasions for low minds to rise,
Expel the mundane and try transcendence.
The hawk’s skilled, hushed flight resets perspectives
Mangled in steel webs that living weaves.
Clumsy motors’ din chants false directives,
Calling finite-values gain, though such leaves
Empty. This silent, auburn form refills
With briefest glimpse, those with searching wills.
 
By Catherine Gruber