What song did the hawk of the golden oak sing that day?
Does it matter? Could we say the oak was silver and be done?
What if it were not a hawk but a blue-jay?
What if no one was there to know if it was a golden-eagle hawk?
Should I walk down to the creek and listen? Observe?
Maybe it’s Winter and I’m cold. Maybe it’s Autumn and I can walk all night.
If I forget myself will I hear the music of birds on a night like this?
Sometimes my mind wanders over stones and bones of old thoughts.
I think I hear one now. Hawk, blue-jay, or thought?
She shut the light off. Now I’m warm. Who cares about thoughts or hawks?
In the nest of her belly I slip into amnesia’s skin. I dream with golden eyes.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.