The hawk falls
and rights itself,

proud it doesn’t
even have to beat

its wings, so high up
it’s currents that bear

its negligible weight;
for all its presence

still brittle-boned.
A pair of quails

flew over, barely
maintaining altitude,

gamey, their flight
was audibly work,

a heavy whirr
bearing towards

the safety of the tree,
plumes bobbing

in old-fashioned
pageantry.  The last

holiday I was out
here, I took the train

back, was struck
by the presence

of the steward,
took a beat to recall

the name of his
overcoat, a duster,

cut from oilcloth,
his old-fashioned cap

incongruous
with the rest

of the passengers,
a covey of down-and-

outers riding coach
all the way from

the Eastern seaboard,
sleeping upright

in the same clothes
for days now as we left

the station and
the desert behind.