Shadowhawk

When next you watch the hawk in morning sun,
then only follow shadow on the hill
that shows a wandering precession
cross an angled plane. Light ties
the tether there that lightly lies
from hill to hawk, from hawk to hill.
Unseen, unfelt, unerring does it draw
the figure of a flight,
omitting one dimension, would the same
do for an angel, though one saw
above no trace of brightness.
While the sky burns blue in sunflame,
high flies shadowhawk, in spiral winging,
lively, lonely, lovely, singing.