To the Hawk Outside My Office Window

It is hard work being you.

Your wings work angrily
To hoist you above the exhaust,
The spray of the fountain
In the midst of the
Chemically azured waters of
The office park's lagoon,
The waftings of the restaurants
Across the way.

You struggle above the boulevard
Toward a dome, a disk
Of unspoiled Spring sky.

You work by rising up
And looking down:
You circle above
The twelve acres
Where your meals move,
The marshy field
That somehow has
Survived as itself.

By the end of next year,
Those acres will be home
Not to you,
But to the likes of me:

The surveyor's stakes
Are already planted
At the corners,
Their red ribbons
Proudly announcing

Fly on,
Be fearless
On our behalf:
At least you know
Why you were made,
And you live,
Always rising
To better see

Even if,
Each day,
It becomes
A little harder
To find.

--Mr. Gobley

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