Tan against blue,
against blue,
velvet wings figure-eight;
scooping out windmills of sky,
a Kestrel hovers
over bluebonnets.
Tiny raptor
treads motionless, intent,
on a column of whipped vacuum,
in a Texas sky.
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And I roll on,
to sit in a silent forest,
motionless,
rifle across my knees,
pistol on my hip,
and remember things that happened
twenty-five years ago.
Nothing moves but my mind
and the wind
through the green, green leaves.
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