Harbinger of Time

The tragedy is scribed in the fractures of rocks,
In the mountains, where the air is thin and clear.
The wind whips the clouds as unobstructed sails,
And his fierce cry thundered against the walls and knotted trunks.

Above the timberline, the grieving Hawk glides,
Beholding his scattered and scorched dominion,
Wondering how, under his eye, it all came to pass,
How the miles of seclusion was tilled into the unquiet.

The ocean of stiff switchgrass and Queen of the prairie
Ripple to the edges of buildings and concrete.
Towers of steel and wires loom over once valleys low,
He witnessed a frantic coyote fear to cross the hot aggregate.

The Red-Tailed Hawk was faced with the truth,
The tree of life no longer could sustain,
And that he has become an enigma,
Full of dread, defiance and seclusion.

The Hawk rested on the cliffs of a primeval majesty,
Where he slumbered amongst the whispers,
And breathed in the ghosts of his ancestors,
Whom illuminate the darkened sky.

In this solitary and decaying hour of the Hawk,
With deep and thoughtful beating of burdened wings,
His gaze reached to the horizon,
To the shores of a once awed existence.

He soared across the distressed avenue with plumes of light,
A nomadic shadow, reversed over the unscathed and plenty,
A bird of prey – a guardian – he was the warden of change.
The Hawk shuddered at his loss.

The awareness ceased and the mountains showed their scars,
Evil spirits were free to drench the earth in apathy,
The Red-Tailed Hawk clenched his battered talons,
Back into the gothic peaks of twisted pines he disappeared.

Colorado. Credit: me.
Colorado. Credit: me.
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