My father was a red-tailed hawk

flying high above my youth

A fine and feral form was he

with wings so wide and long enough

to suit my myths and distance too

to better serve my sullen, silent ways

Though I see now

among my multiplying years

I'd built that sky and placed him there

no better cage a son could find

and with him dead ten years and more

the cage passed on to sons of mine

I find in dreams he's come to ground

and in the early hours will call

a sign to me that he is near

and watching now as I watch

over my own