And once out walking at night
I stumbled across the speckled body
of a small hawk,
the hasp of its wings closed.

One note, one note.

It sings in the rills between words,
between hopes.
It sleeps between leaves in a book,
gathers like dust on the piano.

I heard it once on a green hill
in Aberdeen in short puffs of wind
stirring the new grass among the stones.
Prayer could not alter it

nor clods breaking upon bronze.