Irony

In the city
surrounded by taller
buildings, a light standard
directly in front of the second
story window over looking the traffic
on the boulevard below, a winged visitor
arrives.

A hawk, in
all its glory, perches
only a few feet from where
I sit, a hawk, mind you, those
wild, soaring creatures that can float
in the air on breezes, looking down for
live food

that skitter
about in the grasses
and brush, not in the parking
lots and on the boulevards of a
metropolitan area. Big as an adult
chicken, it was. Maybe it was looking
to pluck

a pigeon right out of the domestic air. They are plentiful.