When the wind died
He could feel the silence
Pressing.
There had to be a hawk.
Birds were down-
Huddled, gone;
Death in sight.
Silence has its own sound:
Thick winter water
Trickling over pebbles
Under a shell of ice.
Cold trees cracking, breathing.
The lazy wash of his own blood
Coursing, flowing
For the time being.
Hot Bottoms 