SOLSTICE  (for Heidi)

The hawk circles high overhead.

Again and again she glides and

floats in 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,

darkness and light equivalent.

I’m exhilarated and half-crazed, wild

with grief and hope and this unplanned

embodied bravery, this wholehearted

stumbling towards bottom.

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 I clamber easily on,

over, around and down this steep

slope, and yes, these bright, newborn

surprises of Winter—tender green blades

of grass—are held within a 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, quietly,

now nearly breathless in my own animal

earthen circling, homewards towards 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.