I called to you when the hawk landed on the fence but you didn’t answer from somewhere in the house. Don’t tell me what’s wrong with that. That’s not how to fill the silence. I only wanted to stand beside you looking at the stripes on the tail feathers, the spotted wings and shoulders, the gray diamonds of the fence in faint fog. There was a slight ruffling in the morning’s wind, that hunching and girding. Talons gripped and loosened. I took off, low, between two houses, lifting on the air as I came to the street, swooping up, soaring and now I am altogether gone.