NATURE Poem: Hawk, by Jason Jaksetic

I stepped outside
and the hawk was already in her—
shoulders low,
hooked beak working through the feathers,
and into the flesh.

One of ours.
A favorite.

The others chickens watched
from the brush,
silent,
as if they knew.
Death in all its obviousness.

There was no shouting, stamping.
No rushing in.
I stood with it—
this ancient violence,
and this interruption.

She was already gone.
I didn’t want the body torn further.
So I walked towards the hawk
and he sulked off.

I went for the shovel.
The soil was soft.
Where I had buried before.

You hope it doesn’t happen.
But it always might.
The world gets in.
Even here.
Even in this life I’m building.
And part of the job
is burying the dead