From a distance his hawk heard the prayer, strong wings just in time lifting,
carrying his heartsong
into the heavens.
Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed
As wind song moves through the pine trees, I can hear hawk wings descending
out of the clouds, and I finally let go of those phrases
I carried as a prayer, shifting and shaping them,
will it be a poem?
as another feather drifts,
to the Earth
from the blue sky.
Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed
A solitary feather is lifted as the wind moves over the hawk’s shoulder.
Chipmunks are breathless as the mountains bask in the sunlight.
Yet the hawk turns his head, to listen to a murmuring sound close by.
A lone figure praying in the shadows, near the top of the mountain.
Peace is seldom easy, so the hawk kept silent, honoring his descendants, he turned away.
Weren’t humans descended from birds of prey?
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, 2020, ancient skies
Influenced by Native American stories of creation.
She loved the way the cold air filled her feathers on Christmas Day. First through the blue skies,
and then as she turned, and banked and even spun around twirling straight into a snow squall,
high up on the ridge. There was so much joy this day! A new day filled with hope, and life never ending, declared……openly.
it was all about the Anointed One, the star lighting the hearts of humans. She continued to twirl, banking and turning,
praising God with her wings as the snow came down heavily with the wind that never ends……
and somewhere in that wind beyond the tallest oak trees……she heard a choir singing…….
Merry Christmas everyone!
If you have a different faith I’m so glad you’re here. Peace and wonderful blessings to you as well!
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
In winter, hawks fly low bending, turning the air
brushing their wings with pine trees
so they can smell like…
Christmas.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
I was up high in the sunset of December
with shadows of tree limbs covering
and hawk wings flying over,
giving me a wild feeling untamed
yet I turned back to the valley
having surrendered, with dreams
of a hot cup of tea,
and My Love cooking
some spicy noodles.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
Note: Sometimes small things are more beautiful.
When leaves whither,
and the brilliance of autumn fades
hawks fly
into the cold light
of the winter sun.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
In the cool grey dawn, a wing dipped down,
testing the waters, slicing the autumn air
banking to the right
moving through the rain
with deadly precision
diving,
while rays of sunlight peek
through the clouds,
a fish captured
to feed her family.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
Sun kissed leaves at the top of trees in the cooler air
where the hawk bathes his feathers
in the sunlight perched
on a large branch
sometimes stretching his wings
to scare the chipmunks
below.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
And I saw the edge of a hawk’s wing filled with wind,
while the crow lived in the shadows waiting his turn,
but within a whisper
I was brought back to earth,
the smell of lavender and vanilla,
My Love rolling over,
planting a kiss on my cheek.
Her smile saying,
“Good morning”.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies