All eyes are fearful of the spotted hawk, whose dappled wingspread opens to a phrase that only victims gaping in the gaze of Death Occurring can recite. To stalk; to plunge; to harvest; the denial-squawk of dying's struggle; these are but a day's rebuke to hunger for the hawk, whose glazed accord with Death admits no show of shock. Death's users know it is not theirs to own, nor can they fathom all it means to die— for young to know a different Death from old. But when the spotted hawk's last flight is flown, he too becomes a novice, fear-struck by the certain plummet once these feathers fold.
From Skunk Night Sonnets by Daniel Waters. Copyright © 2009 by Daniel Waters. Used by permission of Bright Hill Press. All rights reserved.