All morning we hike the upland meadows,

 through devil’s paintbrush, poison sumac,

 and the heady smell of wild apples rotting

 in the pale fall sun. Palm warblers twitch

 their yellow rumps like strung out coke-heads,

 and cedar waxwings sing drinking songs

 as they eat fermented berries from the high

 branches. Two yellow feathers and a skull

 drop from the sky and fall on the brown

 scar of trail, a sharp-shinned hawk on a dead

 branch watching us walk, his brown speckled

 belly and slate gray wings reflecting the sun.

 He considers us, and without a flap

 opens his wings to the wind and is gone.

Poetry

Psychiatric Times Vol 29 No 10

Two yellow feathers and a skull. . . drop from the sky and fall on the brown . . . scar of trail, a sharp-shinned hawk