A quiet storm, as snow clouds roll down from the mountains
drifting over the valley carrying a few small flakes
meandering, swirling here
and there, and as I look beyond
the grey and white, I can see the shape
of hawk wings, his wings cutting the air,
his strength bringing
larger flakes, I quietly wish him,
“Good hunting my brother……”
as I zip up my jacket further,
and continue walking, now covered
in a deluge
of white.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
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