out of line

The spell of the sparrow hawk is written in bend and break against the skin of the wind. The workings of the elder craft upon the manifest, all soft for sharpness, all speed for strength. The deft misdirect of the evasion, the brief survey of the scene as the next crime is calculated, the stitching of the seams and the singing of the world. The raptor’s unyielding gaze meeting my mind in my eyes, the old inklings, scripture and the central shtick. It reads my thoughts as I get a couple of snaps off, born three steps ahead of my ilk. Feeding stray gods and spirits like feeding strays and squirrels and birds. The opening of the offering, the parable of the sower meets the plow as the worm, a reminder that most hungers are not limited to the belly. The feast always exceeds the table, consequence moves in ripples rather than lines. The dive a miss and a lesson, life itself an appetite.

Thus the tangle of intentions, the spinning wheel and the turning earth. Thus the stricken out line and the sky flush with crows. The songbird medley and the stir of dogs, dust kicked up and teeth flashed, gnashing at the vacated space. Something lifted from the notation of hawk wing and wind, the shifting sigils of buoyancy and lift, something sharpened in the striking of the spark from stone. Late to the game, we edit out the ghosts, we make up stories to miss the point. This is where we take flight, upon the reaped whirlwind of these abstractions, all blessings bent to fill our bellies. All that is sacred turned to bread and wine.

I can’t say what the mystery might be up to. I don’t know what parts I have left to play. The cops parley a couple houses over, old women confer in the garage across the street. The cops pull out and round the corner as a mourning dove registers its complaint, the dog in the yard shifting her location, her eyes another lament. It’s one thing after another, consequences bunch up and spread their seed, the afternoon sun and the weight of white clouds piling in the sky. The reach of green, the whispered spell, my eyes heavy with intent. I speak in smoke and the dozen hungers, heaven thick with altars, the earth teeming with gods. The words seep and stray out of line as the spirits descend.