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.