The swallow-tailed kite drifts along slowly a few feet above treetops, or sometimes close to the ground. Often the hawk feeds in flight. One day, death, like this hawk, will snatch my breath. When he spots his prey he doesn't dive, but slips downward feet first, seizing his victim, then kiting upward. Someone should bring the children inside. I organize insurance papers, birth certificates, and passports —for my husband just in case. I collect words from obituaries —courageous, loving, adventuresome . . . On the front-page today, statistics of death by heart attack. Yesterday it was lung cancer. This morning the sun warms my face. My chest lifts and falls easily. Lobelia creeps across the wooden frame of its bed, the swallow-tailed kite soaring out of my line of vision.
Pam Wynn is a poet and educator currently working on her M.A. in Theology and the Arts at United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities in Minnesota. She is author of Diamonds on the Back of a Snake (Laurel Poetry Collective, 2004). email@example.com