Nighthawk

Sometime this summer
I climb Carter's Knob
up past the treeline in late afternoon
and sit on Indian Rock.
The air has a crispy quality
so high that the mosquitos
are non-existent and I can look down
at the tops of trees, the green canopy
where today I see a pair of eagles
circling and I'm wondering
how it is to fly.

It's been a long time since
I've thought about dying
but I can imagine
now is the time to fledge my wings,
shake out my feathers,
put on my night vision 
and arc myself off the rock
like the old Cherokee 
did a hundred years ago
rocketing into the dusking sunlight
until the prism of my colors
fades to every shade of black.

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Hawk

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