The Fledgling ~ Joannie Stangeland

Black as empty as gone as left
as void as sorrow as wing come

to rest, as caw from the pine
in summer new-born,

the nest perched high enough
and June blue brushed with clouds

frame that first plummet.
Then the waiting, awkward lift,

the drama cinematic,
rise over the garden, out

to the street. Steel and speed—
a car’s as bad as a hawk.

Claws gripping the tree limb,
call scratching the air,

the mother cries down the night.