The Flight of the Hawk I. In his dreams, he stoops beside the stream, Sips water, gathers it in the cup of his hand. And it tastes so sweet he forgets it is a dream, And his face is filled with the smells of the land. Green and brown the forest smells, and sweet, Sweetness of leaves moldering in the spring, Sweetness of the brown soil beneath his feet, Sweetness of the waters that over rocks ring. Pale the water he gathers in his cupped hands, Pale with the dwindling brightness of the foam That over the rapids leaps and in pools stands, Its silvery taste reminding him of a poem. "Starlight on the waters..." His voice falls away, Running through his fingers like the bubbles, As he sees a hawk land and make a branch sway, As the clearness of the vision for a moment troubles Him. But then the walls fade away again, And he is once more in a forest of ancient gold, Of oaks and bays, where untouched by men The trees grow in spring and suffer the cold. The hawk twists its head to look down at him, Its golden eyes as keen as the heat of a fire. Then it leaps into the air, and goes on a long skim Downstream from the man, as swift as desire. He leaps to his feet, and stumbles in a hollow. Quickly he pulls himself up once more, eyes seeking The darting shape of the hawk; he longs to follow This hunter through the woods like a deer leaping. There, there, and there, comes the harsh thrill Of the cry of the hunt ringing down in his ears, The cry of the hunt, and the cry of the kill! Off he goes, in the direction of the call he hears. II. He finds himself walking across dappled meads, Where fall the shadows of the trees standing tall, Across the sunlight that perhaps nurtures seeds That will be trees in turn when these giants fall. Across the stream's waters he has to leap once, But his mind and his body are alert for the cry Of the masterful hunting bird that he hunts. He spreads his arms as if he too can fly, And soars across the stream like a bird in air. He lands safely on the opposite brink, And rushes off without a thought or a care. For one moment there, he forgot to think, And so he seemed to feel wind in his feathers, To look down from above on a world of green, To sweep into the domain the hawk alone weathers. He shakes his head to clear it and hears the keen, Ringing and wild, like the Wild Hunt's hunting horn, Coming from somewhere off in the forest. He dashes to find the bird from which it is born, Threading his way as he goes through the chorus Of lesser birdsong, and the jay's and raven's voices. Harsh as they are, they have a sound like duty Clashing as it eliminates the prisoner's choices. The hawk's cry alone tells of perilous beauty, The beauty that stoops on wings high above all, The beauty that looks down with eyes of iron, The beauty that ends the prey's life in the fall, The beauty that sings with the song of the siren To a certain race of soul. This man has heard it, And races through the forest as if he had wings. Since he was a child, he has always preferred it- That conceit- to the kind a human heart sings. III. He comes to the edge of the forest, and finds The hawk perched on the edge of a wide plain. For a moment, he hesitates, is of two minds. He cannot step into the grass without pain; He can see that clearly from the grass's sharp edges. But the hawk turns to look at him with gold Flashing proud in his eyes, and he no longer hedges. He flashes out, and winces, but tries to be bold As the grass cuts and tears at his skin. Above, The hawk circles with a cry that wafts down To touch the man's ears, as proud as love. He forces himself on, forces his fear to drown In the ocean of the grass that spits but bends. Soon, like a sailor far from the sight of shore, He struggles in a realm that never ends, And he cannot see the safe land any more. Out in the middle of the ocean of the grass, He continues walking, though his hands bleed As if cut on arrowheads or on jagged glass. The hawk calls to him, as if gone to lead His way over the jagged thrusting army of spears. The man smiles mockingly, and plunges ahead. And then for a moment, a vision sears Across his eyes so sharply he thinks himself dead Of the power and the glory of it; for he sees Himself high above, on brown-golden vanes, Surveying the ocean from windward to lees, Sees himself on wings coasting the plains, Feels himself falling at a motion far below, Feels himself plunge through the sheer air, Feels himself snatch, and prey die at the blow, Feels himself twist up once more into his lair, And feels himself seek out a high perch Where he can feed, mantling over his prey, Sending out his cry as he watches the man lurch, Tearing flesh and sinew before it dies away. He blinks, back in his own body once more, And gazes in wonder at the blood on his hand. From that moment, he knows he will find the shore, From the razor edges of the sea again come to land. IV. Still he walks, though now it is darkest night, And down the stars and moon upon him gaze. He sees a soft pale glow he assumes is their light- But then he halts and stares in amaze. Lying ahead of him is a wash of pure white, Like the heart of the sun, like a unicorn's pelt, Like the perfume of roses condensed into light. The grass is the softest he has ever felt. Where in the day he walked in grass harsh as sun, And was led with the thrill of the hawk's iron, Here he walks in a land where the stars run, And drifting ahead of him is the song of the siren, Luring him on when he would pause to rest, To reflect, to gaze on the grass's silver flowers. He walks as he would on a ship upon the sea's breast, Lightly lurching in motion; he has been awake hours. But who can think of rest, when the darkness Is full of song, and he can almost see the singer? Each step he makes through bloom-softened starkness, He thinks to see her; he cannot here linger. Again the vision takes him; this time he drifts, A hawk still, but lost in a country of dreams, Where the wind without his wings his body lifts, Where he floats with the effortlessness of sunbeams, Where he rests, as hawks never do in the day. Here beneath him the grass shines like the moon, And his belly is full; there is no need to hunt prey. He knows himself free, though mad as a loon. He laughs, and the laugh awakens him to light; He stands on the far side of the golden plain. He glances back; but behind him no grass white Stands to offer him a voice, or explain. V. He comes to the mountains now, enchanted hills That, wooded, gaze down at him from their pines Like porcupines watching a fisher that thrills To the lure of trying to strike through their spines. He rests in the shade of a pine, and awakens To find the hawk on a bough high above him. He startles; but then lies down and hastens To study this bird who seems to love him. The hawk lies with his head tucked in his wing, Cradled on a bed of feathers both brown and gold. Soft and steady comes his hunter's breathing, The breath of a hunter who will not grow old, But will die of misadventure long before age. The man nods in satisfaction; that is the way That he would choose to die, the dark page He would rip from the book, if he gets a say. The hawk startles awake then, and his wings Spread out to either side of him as he stretches, Fine pinions laced with light little tremblings. Then he sees the man looking back; he kvetches For a time about the state of things, then leaps. The wind carries him up into the trees' green. The man after him takes to the wooded steeps, Springing like a buck deer, and near as lean. VI. These mountains are different from the lowlands; His breath grows labored the higher he climbs. But he cannot bring himself to turn back; his hands Grasp the stones and pull him up several times When his mind would tell him, "Turn back!" It is not his mind which rules now, but his heart, Full of passion, and thinking that he must lack Something as long as they two are apart. Evening descends before he sees once again The hawk resting in a pine; he openes one eye, And watches, with his casual contempt of men, With his casual contempt of all who cannot fly, The man stumble to his resting place. Then he, Thumping his wings open, gazes straight down. The man stares at him, unable to break free. And then they both wheel to the mountain's crown, Tossed on a wind that both of them feel. For a moment, in the light upon the stones around, They turn and glide; they waltz and reel, And the man feels himself loosing that thrilling sound, That cry that first convinced him to follow. When they stoop again, part of him remains high. He can rest no longer in this tiny hollow; Part of him wants to leap free and fly. The hawk watches him as he climbs the tree, And then pauses and sighs in seeming dismay. His body of the earth cannot yet pull free; He must be human for at least another day. For somehow he knows it is in the twilight, At the set of the sun as it relaxes in the west, That he will use his own wings to take his first flight. Resignedly, he lies down, and comes to rest With his head piled at the foot of the tree's roots, Just beneath the hawk who sits in loveliness. For a moment, just a moment, there shoots From the golden eyes something that seems tenderness. VII. He awakens to find the hawk hovering just above, His wings scooping and tossing the winds away, His cry commanding in a touch of harsh love For the man to rise up, and follow him away.. The man trembles as he rises; for he knows That somewhere, somehow, ahead, he will fly. The hawk wheels and leads him into the snows; The hawk wheels and leads him into the sky. Still higher they climb, and the man still pants, Still lies down at times as if he would rest. But the hawk flies above him, and raves and rants, Shoots ahead, and comes back; the sun heads west. And so the sun finds him, at the height of heights, Convinced he must go down if he will go on. He rests once more, and this time the hawk alights Beside him, and one talon comes to rest upon His hand, as if by the most casual circumstance. But the man knows that destiny has come, That fate has planned every step of this dance. He says softly to the hawk, "Do not play dumb." After a moment, the talon encircles his wrist. The man smiles, and lays his head on his hands. Together, they watch the sun slowly cease to exist. In the last fading dusk of twilight he stands, And runs his fingers through his hair, and winces. He mutters, "I wish I could be sure I looked better." The hawk watches him with the silence of princes, Not moving, not turning one single feather. The man takes a deep breath, moves to the edge, And just as he did when he first heard the cry, He knows he will not last if he must long hedge. He steps over the precipice, and into the sky. VIII. Off he circles; and he is riding upon the wind, Balancing himself with the care of the great When they undertake a war that they want to win. Then he laughs, and forgets thoughts of state. This is flight, and like nothing upon the earth. His body spurns the ground, his wings the air. He has forgotten the humanity that give him birth, Forgotten coming death, and forgotten care. This is what it is like when a hawk soars, When he leaves the earth to live in the sky. He has forsaken all memory of the shores, And he will live in the sea, or he will die. No leviathian in water has ever easier circled Than this hawk wrapped in the arms of the wind, This man winging through the sky empurpled. He has forgotten, his memory has thinned. He does not care; he can lose all his valued things, All that he has sacrificed to bring out with him. So long as the vision takes not his wings, He can consign his pride and self-love to whim. This is life, he thinks as he circles once again, And laughs, his laughter transformed into the cry. This is life, beyond the paltry concerns of men. This is what life is like when one can fly. The other hawk joins him; together they wing Their way out over the mountains and the hills. He can hardly wait to see the end of everything; He can hardly wait until he makes his first kills. The hawk cries to him, and down they plunge, Swift as thunderbolts from the god's hand, Swift as rattlesnakes when in poisoned lunge They strike- and yet sink their fangs in the sand. IX. For as suddenly as that, the vision is gone, And the man awakens, panting, in his tiny cell, His mind stung awake by the bells that mark dawn. His head falls back, and his hopes sag as well. What use is it to dream of the hawk in flight, When all his life he will remain in this prison's well? What use is it to dream of heaven's pure light When all he will know is the harsh flames of hell? "On your feet." The words push him to his feet. He looks, not for the first time, at others' vacant eyes, And wonders what will happen when his dreams fleet, When the last vision away from his nights flies. The others have given up. Why does he still hope? The others have succumbed to the clasp of the irons. Why does he alone climb the steep slope? Why alone does he dream of hawks and of sirens? He closes his eyes, and tries to wake himself up, Whispering, as the wardens do, that dreams are dreams, Passing fancies upon which no man living can sup. More substantial food he must have when hunger screams. He goes through the same ritual with himself every dawn, Promising himself that this will be the morning When his last fancy, his last dream is gone, Shaking his own shoulders, giving his own warning. But then, as it seems happens every single day, Just as he has nearly lost his last scrap of soul, Just as the last freedom is nearly snatched away, Just as he nearly submits to the wardens' control- Overhead a hawk flies, giving a thrilling cry. The wardens try their best to drown the sound out. They shake the chains and snap the whips high; They stamp and clap, they scream and they shout. They know how dangerous that cry could be, If it ever touched one soul as it touches his own. In following the hawk's cry every one could be free. But for now, one man holds the secret alone, Heeds the cry, and feels his mind kindle with desire. He turns his back upon the hopelessness of night, Turns his back to the night, and his face to the fire, Turns his head upwards towards the slanting light. In the moment before the whip falls on his back, He sees the golden eyes of the hawk watching him. In the moment before everything turns black, He sees the light burning in eyes no blow can dim. He falls on the stones, but keeps his head turned. The hawk circles over him; then its shadow hunts Away across the courtyard. The golden fire has burned Ever since the day that he heard the hawk cry once, And ever since the day that he vowed, though come Hell and harsh misery to hold and chain him here, Some day he would again know taste of freedom, Know the brush of wings in air high and clear. He barely feels the blows fall, as he watches the bird Soar like light away across the freedom-striped sky. Though the cry fall on deaf ears, at least one has heard: The hawk is free as long as he has the sky.