Monday, July 5, 2021


Riding updrafts,
looking sharply
at the mouse below,
with its telescopic eye--
no drone with pixels,
this marriage
of function and form--
the hawk spirals down
in a gyre,
Yeats watching
its mystical inclination,
wings open,
slanted with purpose,
speed, energy,
clarity married
to the end result.
He believes
in his calling,
the outcome
already achieved
in its perning feathers,
in the fate bequeathed
to him in the fullness
of nonlinear time
by a hand he cannot see,
and so he succeeds
since there is no division
between purpose and flight,
flight and purpose.
The soul within his brain
simply knows
like a mustard seed
what is right.

~William Hammett

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