The hawk is only caught once he’s finished the hunt.
That’s the one time his image can truly be captured,
when he’s slowed down, left wing raised to celebrate his kill.
Otherwise, he’s just too swift,
A blizzard of black and yellow feathers.
Now he’s sunk his neon talons in the turf,
and as the crowd caws,
eighty thousand of them perched on a concrete branch,
he bows to them.
Photo by Ryu Voelkel
Poetry by Musa Okwonga