Pruning With Kestrel

A poem about a person and a hawk

A few lambs were born where I live

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Pruning With Kestrel

In the cold morning, from the end of the row, I can look across an empty field
The valley feels small, despite any kind of distance

We clip branches off, years in the drifts of sticks
The willow wand whip of first year growth
And yieldless branches of those older in age
The sound of the wind

A kestrel high on a post, comes and goes
Watching, looks away
As we make sense of the ways trees grow
And what it is we want
To feel, and to know