He fell headfirst onto the tiles
laughingly evading me with two
fistfuls of empanadas spilling out.
Tears, ice pack and blueberry yogurt drops
eased us back to smiles.
He ran toward me later
filled with glee, grabbing my face
and taking tiny chunks of flesh
in his fingernails.
A conveyor of wild nature spirit
must use any tools he has.
He can say “hawk”
because a red-shouldered beauty
perched right outside until he noticed
it preening, then lifting its wings
and spiraling off, like the star of an airshow.
The “H” is a long exhalation,
the sharp “K” a reverence.
We watch the windows
carefully: the hawk brings messages
from the spirit world, reminds us
that the most ordinary experience
is deeply meaningful
if we are ready to see.