A hawk glides in on the music of lawnmowers.
The light’s a sieve,
darkness sifts down.
The wingtips of the hawk
brush the grass
and in a single bound its shadow
soars over the ghosts of television sets
haunting identical houses.
The wingspan of the hawk
cuts a path through the air and disappears
behind night’s door.
The sky is webbed with echoes—
that cross and recross the silence.
It is a map drawn in an unseen spectrum,
a legend of lucid gestures.