Come, let me show you my hawks.

We are old farmers,

with old machinery that needs replacing,

and have some wooded pastures

no farm animal grazes

(though we do not speak of this to farmers).

So woods remain, and long grasses,

with small animals secret.

When I walk the trail through the woods they come to me.

My hawks.

They swoop above me in full screech

and hang almost still until

just as I aim my camera,

then glide swiftly down the sky

behind the sheltering trees.

Mostly the male calls down curses

to keep away from his life,

and sometimes is joined by his warrior queen.

I have not gone near their treetop nest,

in honour of their majesty.

We also wished to be left in peace

as we raised our children.

Our children grown do not want to farm

And we do not wish it upon them,

Only keep the land and lay yourself down,

Let the solid peace soak up through your bones

And rest yourself on the land.

And see the hawks soar,

Masters of the sky.

And know yourself owned by the land

And a subject of long live the hawks.