High above this snowy field

we spot a shadow hovering.

When I turn to you and ask,

What is it: a vulture or a hawk?

your hand drops mine

to shade your narrowed eyes

from the brilliant winter light.

Let it be a hawk, you say,

let the beautiful, majestic bird

of poetry we read in school

soar like a good omen

over this spring-surprise

of love in our autumn years.

And you take my hand to prove

it’s already taking effect.

But I keep seeing a vulture’s shape

in the deep curve of the shoulders,

I keep sensing the lurking danger

in the happy plot of the story.

So let it be a vulture, too,

blunt-headed, raggedy,

something we don’t want flying

over our best moments,

to remind us how love can turn,

as my anger towards you can do,

as your righteousness can scoop

my smallness in its claws

dashing it from the height

of your better, sweeter nature.

But let it also be a hawk,

high-minded, riding warm waves

of thermals in this cold weather.

Whatever it is, it soars

above this wintery bright…