Wrong Bird

It was the
wrong bird
circling at two
hundred feet—

it should have been
a red-tailed hawk
floating
on the warm
drafts,
talons tucked,
appearing relaxed
but stalking
with eyes ablaze,
preying—

not a sandhill crane,
longing in desperate circles,
searching for a shred of white linen,

its mate moving
across the open field
far below.

Don Cadwallader

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