Dear Ones—I was eating oatmeal
in the garden that was shining in praise
of last night’s quarter inch of rain,
every leaf and petal lifted glistening,
and the phlox’s vanilla perfume drifting
in the new damp cool of morning,
mixing with my latte; eating gratefully
in the temple of trees at the base
of that green hill filled with rising
and flowering, listening for the music
that accompanies such a day;
puzzled to hear no cardinal
or chickadee or finch, only angry calls
of crows and jays, the chipmunk’s
urgent chirping. Later, opening
my front door, I understood
what I should have known earlier:
the Cooper’s hawk sat there, huge
on the telephone pole, his eyes briefly
on me, his white implacable breast
gleaming in sunlight, unmoving
except for his sharp eyes now scanning
for scurrying in the greenery.