The Black Hawk
Standing in the thick woods by night,
Nothing can be seen,
And yet, I see a black hawk
Flying with it’s beauty.
He spreads those huge flaps,
With straight bold post,
And speeds up and down in the sky,
Past the hidden moon with grace and beauty.
That moment of flight,
Clouds floats over and he disappears.
But within a split second, I see him again.
And yet, with no grace and beauty anymore.
Just thundering down towards the ground.
Down he goes, down he goes.
Falling into the arms of the thick woods.
Going over to see if he’s hurt,
I see him standing on the grass,
With shivering legs.
I wondered how to help.
I try to pick him up,
And he tries to peck me,
With his sharp beak.
But later, I am able to.
I put him in my arms,
And yet, his shivers never stop.
He just turns his head,
Back and fourth, back and fourth.
I examine him,
And I see no scratches.
So, I lift my arms,
And gave him a push.
Yet, he doesn’t fly,
Just falls back to the floor.
I then sit beside him,
And just wonder why he stays.
Written by John Cheng
If ya got any comments on this poem, email John
