Figured Dark: Poems

American Kestrel

American Kestrel Though you were watching me, I neither ate nor drank, but what you saw was a vision. —Tobit 12:19 Atop the pole, a kestrel. The field? Not yet green, though it was a day between storms and the sun was doing its work. I was resting in the light-filled air and the cottonwoods along the river were letting go their cottony seeds–– wind blowing, trees letting go. The seeds were like angels, ascending and descending in the breeze. It was male, this kestrel, with a steely crown and rufous breast and false eyes at the nape of his neck. His talons were maize, the yellow of summer corn. I know this because I have a book of raptors, a book that was written for use in the field, and every illustration, every word is directed to that end. The kestrel sang a kestrel’s song. Killy, killy are the words. And the kestrel rose from the pole kiting in the wind to sing and search the field. Though he was small as raptors go, 40 he seemed a great angel wheeling among cherubim, searching with his true eyes. I did not so much see as dream this–– how the kestrel wheeled in the blue air, then struck the field in a flurry of wings. Yes, the kestrel killed the mouse. I knew before I saw the bird lift the body and tear the flesh. The little king at work in the field, lifting the body and tearing the flesh. The body seemed a great weight. The blood stained the kestrel’s talons and his rufous red breast. The blood made true his killy, killy song. But the angels went on, rising and falling in the blue air. They could not stop what was written but kept their watch. Yes, the blood watered the field and the grass grew green. The field, the field at least, was grateful for this. 41 ...