Poem: Saturday hawk and retriever

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(Written 10 years ago almost to the day while jogging Stanford foothills. Does it make sense? Not sure.)

A hawk tilts to puncture
the blue
air
and passes through

to be the denizen
of all that I don’t see.
Then a retriever in the sun
takes on the colors of the

stunned
weeds she splashes
and
crushes,

padding at the barely sensed
edge of things she rubs against.

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