Watching songbirds wintering at the windowfeeder.
Money, again, on my mind.
Francis loved the poverty of animals,
who own only hungers,
every expectation exhausted within
their perfectly tailored lot.
Who are always as they are made
and die in the dress they were born in.
My daughter and I drove down
the highway one day last week
and along the road in an hour
saw seven hawks, still
on limbs or overhead looping circles:
watching to stoop, take and eat
some songbird.
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