A single hawk flies cold above the flowers,
Momentum quickly focused by the hour.
The mood requires warm bones against the frost,
Before the pattern is forever lost.
The shadow of pure flight hallows the ground,
Song fitly joined together without sound.
Veering is elegant against the pane.
Friend, time turns west upon that sunset plane.
Sandra Fowler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pure-flight/
