Circles

The hawk circled endlessly over my house,
Every time I looked up, he was there
Every day since returning from the little church
The little graveyard,
The little grave where we left behind
The little box of ashes.

This hawk had feathers missing from his left wing
Was he shot at? Did he escape the jaws of a cougar?
Years later, my 8 year old son and I would find
A dead hawk in the woods,
Wings spread, chest gone
Head missing. Ritual or animal?

I needed a hawk at the time,
My father was dead
Cancer, that son of a bitch,
Took him before I really knew him
I got no guidance from him
I was on my own

Except for the hawk that circled
And watched for vermin
In my yard. There must have been enough
To satisfy him, the hawk stayed for years.
Until we moved to Custer
Where we found his dead brother

My son and I.
We found him.
We left him behind.
We moved on
But we are still together
My son and I