Pigeon Hawk
Be sure that whatever you are is you.
—Theodore Roethke
We walk together along the hill’s crest
when we see them, a flock in unison,
wings spread, tails cocked, riding updraft.
“Whoa,” we say, believing the impossible—
a cast of falcons in formation,
an air show discovered just by looking up.
We hold our breath a beat, and then sigh,
“Just pigeons.” Yet, why the letdown?
Was it not how they flew that made us gasp,
or was it what we hoped they’d be?
They pass over us again. The leader,
merlin-dark, her frame commanding,
her flight direct—a feathered bullet,
potent with pent-up power. She snaps
her wings, pinions slicing through air
like scimitars. But her sisters don’t shrink
from her. They relax as she spreads
her wings, comfortable as she lands
and preens there on the wire
where they’ve saved space for her.
None coo with judgment or disdain.
None are ruffled by her poise.
Not one of them would think to say,
“Get real. You’re just a pigeon.”