It is early spring twilight
where the last of the sun lights
clouds from below
two hawks, slowly fall,
where the trees are black
in the distance-
so much blue light
at home,
I would be in the grass,
growing cold against
my skin, the sudden sweetness
that comes in crushing it
a benediction in my hair
those lazy shapes, unseen
that hawks make-
the arms of God
this air,
where we live,
between them.