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Poems

When I Was a Witness to Murder

I witnessed this on the

white stone steps of

a building named after

Walt Whitman.

 

Two hawks were

fighting to the death.

Flying in between and

over abandoned ten story buildings.

 

Vocalizing like seagulls,

but deeper and menacing.

The birds would arc higher than

skyscrapers, and then dive at one another.

 

And when they collided

mid-air my insides shook.

No other humans around seemed to notice,

but neither did they notice us.

 

Then the third joust occurred

and one of them made a triumphant screech,

a trumpet achieving beauty

in a single note.

 

But it was not finished.

They kept fighting, lower and lower,

until one fell.

Until it was silent.