A gentle breeze of warmth pushes pleasant,
freakishly normal, but a smack on the water
builds waves that grow older and stronger.
You feel it all soft behind your eyes.

But there is always something missing
that on more cigarette can't fix.
There is always one bird flying
who just can't find the right sticks

to stand on, to launch from, to rise and
fight the world, so he glided circles
as Lady Hurricane approached.
He flew tired, then he flew more.

I opened the door to our house in Connecticut
in the red mist after Sandy and looked up, and
watched him ramble.  "The Hawk in the Hurricane."
There he was circling, as if to prove his strength.

And when those boys and girls were murdered in Newtown,
just down the road,
I thought of him
like he was a good thing.  
Brave enough to stand and be a bad omen.  
A crucifix with wings.

Innocent boys and girls are gone now.  
Turned into a show we watch on TV.  
But that is natural to life in this century,
so there's policy and argument
and my eyes turn back
to my own
endless circle
with an end.

Happiness makes a subtle appearance as just a humble breath,
a deli sandwich, as sun that peaks around the old windows.  
And sees me,
invites a squint,
rises,
sets,
and then comes back.