Visitor to a New York Apartment
What would the Romans make
of this hawk, or eagle,
who suddenly collided with our window
and now is sitting on the air conditioner,
head cocked, staring so intently
through the glass into your eyes and mine at the breakfast
Has this curious raptor been following windy currents
south from his usual crags
in pursuit of a more elusive prey,
only to settle now
for trash-fed pigeons and scrambling rats?
Or has he, like you and I, developed a genuine taste
for the food that only cities can provide?
You move your cup, the feathers ruffle. I stand
and all at once the great wings rise.
Off he flies, the messenger
of some morning still to come, circling away in the growing
an augury which neither of us yet can read
but which in time we might.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Michael Cooney would be pleased to hear from you.