Field Notes #1: Hawk Song
You are reading the weekly poetry newsletter, "Entangled Worlds: A Field Guide to Hope in a World Unraveling" by N.A. Chapman. Read more about it here.
Hello, fellow waylarks! Sit down here. Stay awhile. The day outside is darkening, but here we have a warm fire and sustenance for your soul. No no no. I don’t have food or medicine for you (though you’ll need those along the journey, I’m sure). But stories, songs, fairy tales, recipes, poetry even. I have those to give in free supply. Though everywhere they want nothing more than to cut out our tongues, they cannot stop the hawk from calling. They cannot stop the flowers blooming or the river flowing (though they often try). Take this hawk song for your journey. Hold it close. Imagine sprouting feathers and winging upon the warm winds that are carrying our friends to distant shores. Take it and try to catch sight of a hawk on its way home.
Hawk Song
Wispy fingers grasp the hills.
A heavy veil for winged sight commands:
don’t believe your eyes or ears,
but Shenandoah silver seeps through
washing the white bones of the mountains clean
and leaving a rusted carcass to crumble on the banks.
River glass and blooming boneset
burst through the cracks.
Monarchs rise
rising high into the azure sky
ripping the clouds anew.
Higher and higher
we rise
higher than a half-mast masquerade
crawling with a red-eyed
devouring.
We rise
feather-bright
on warm winds.
We rise
following paths the hills stitch into our hearts
and the rivers sew into our souls.
Higher and higher
a clarion call into a wide sky
eyes wide open
we rise.
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