SOLSTICE

The hawk circles high overhead.


Again and again she glides and
floats in the open sky above me
like the soul of a friend or a new/
found poem.


I call out to her raucously as I tumble
down from the mountain peak
on this day of the Winter Solstice
when darkness overcomes light.


I’m exhilarated and half-crazed, wild
with grief and hope and this unplanned
embodied bravery, this wholehearted
stumbling towards the bottom.


Yet the silent beauty of this solitary winged
creature, regal and pure in late afternoon’s
spacious coolness, the diffuse oranges and
yellows of the setting sun, these many angled
hunks of granite rock I clamber easily on,


over, around and down this happy steep
slope, and yes, these bright, newborn
surprises of Winter—tender green blades
of grass—are held within a soft haze
of marine air, a diaphanous invitation


from beyond, oozing in slowly from
the distant coast. I kneel here on muddy
ground and pray ‘yes’ and ‘thanks’
for this day and all who inhabit its shine


and shadow as I fall further and quietly,
now nearly breathless in my own animal
earthen circling, homewards toward a cup
of coffee and comforting warmth, as she


the sudden visitor, ethereal and so real,
Winter’s auburn herald, disappears
northwards into such a final immensity.