whether a raptor rowing the air above dairy pasture
resembles a child’s toy or a white-robed savior.
Hunting rodents, the white-tailed kite creates
its own currents. Its wings flicker with purpose
like flame. Wildfire sometimes hunts this hillside,
these grasses, during seasons of drought. But weather
will never deter the kite’s hunger. Every time
I climb this hill lately I see life and death
and the same white-tailed kite persistently searching.
If humankind succumbs en masse to some fatal disease,
who better to take over our rites of worship?
The high beams of oaks grow far more divine
while mere words crumble into rubble.