Sharp

by Amy K. Genova

Thirteen hawks fly
with their hawk hearts
over the crepuscular river
where dormouse is all
breast & shivers like
Mahler’s woodwinds

Their hawk eyes say much
while ragweed rags
& maples hum—
the dormouse should
be feldspar
should be wings

should be civility

But dormouse is dormouse
and hawks are hawks
all eye & muscle,
with hearts in their beaks

Even if there were pencils
and thirteen hawks idled
over musical arguments
or notes of clouds,
dormice are syllables

& hawks have so much to sing