Where Are We Headed?

The hawk glides in place-
Effortless anchorage over
The strong summer wind
Barreling down the cliffs,
Lifted by nothing
But the air of the earth.

This is where we are
Supposed to talk about dreams,freedom,
Maybe God. This is the point, the rift
Where grandiloquent proclamations of hope
Seep in through a crack in the poem’s foundation
And collapse like wet cardboard
Under their own weight.

But maybe it’s best
Without all that?
Maybe this is just where the hawk stands
For himself, where the confluence of the universe
Who put him before me
And me behind him
Is enough, maybe this is
That part of our story:

A day that once would have been
Nameless, predestined at a point to be July,
Under relentlessly loving sun
Plants growing
A universe of their own
All around us.
This is where we are.