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The hawk surveys the grounds with keen and focused eyes, no movement will escape attention; none will taunt this feared and stoic shape. The hawk surveys the grounds, his kingdom, from the trees, majestic wings await a mouse or smaller bird oblivious to fate. The hawk surveys the grounds as afternoon declines the ravens' calls begin a frantic chorus line, his brothers closing in. The hawk surveys the grounds, his nest and mate nearby, well past the harvest moon, there is no time to waste with winter coming soon. 
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Summer eves and gentle breezes plead for man the day's parole; warmth of sunshine fades so slowly, therapeutic to the soul. Distant oranges and crimson, shadows stretch out from the rise; silhouettes of pines and saplings offer respite to our eyes. Leaving worries of the workplace far behind as dusk sets in, all forgiven are the hassles, supervisors, our chagrin. Having now communed with evening, for tomorrow, not the same, as the remonstrances stumble, sees this night and what became. 
Remembering the adage well, with none to hear, the tree that fell had never made a sound. I contemplate, with saddened eyes, if hope was lost, would its demise be missed by none around? I used to dream of brighter days- that always gave me wondrous ways around what life would deal. When one by one those issues took the options from my future's book, my fate seemed all too real. With no attention paid to me my hope had fallen, like that tree, in muted reticence. The wall I built to keep the pain from ever hurting me again is now my lone defense. 
Sorceress is here, practicing her cunning art, living among us, watching, with flaming red hair and spider webs for stockings. 
The first out was routine, A grounder had occurred. A force at second base, The runners, first and third, "The phenom" now prepared To get a double-play, The catcher wagged a "two", A curve ball underway, The batter should have guessed That heat would not be sent, But though his timing's off, Trajectory was bent, The bat just clipped the ball, And fouled high into stands. So now the phenom thought, A fastball he'd command. Shook off the catcher's sign, One finger down and right, The phenom took a breath And threw with all his might, The ball flew fast inside, Made hitter's pull commit, He weakly tagged the ball Into the shortstop's mitt, Who turned and made the toss To second baseman's west, Avoiding runner's track, Collision was the quest, The throw went on to first, A laser beam was caught, The double-play complete, A win the phenom sought. The pastime might forget The pitch that made the day But not the crafty phenom Who filed it away. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
November 2020
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