The Winter Hawk

The cold winter rain falls.
I hear the trickles
leaping off my roof
like a liquid metronome
whose precise timing is
occasionally off-beat.
The sound is like an
ice bath to my ears.
I wrap myself
in my blanket
and try to warm 
everything that is
trapped underneath it.
I burrow my body into
the sofa and bring the
cozy layer up to my nose
like I am going to hibernate 
for the next three months.
I feel her hand reach under
my preheated barrier, 
not to steal my fire
or to let the cold in
but to simply be near me.
I remember the hawk
I saw earlier,
perched in a nearby tree top.

The cold winter rain falls.
I hear the pattering
of her heartbeat hum,
the bare skin intensity dull 
enough to let me know that 
I am not alone in my moment.
The sound is like a
rhythmic warmth that
simmers my insides,
like fresh grits bubbling
on a dated flat stovetop.
I wrap myself around
her noise and let it
pull me deep inside her.
I burrow my soul
into her soul and
play it on repeat
because I want to
hear the life she contains.
I remember the hawk
I saw earlier,
perched alone in a treetop,
braving the elements I
willing dodge and avoid.

The cold winter rain falls.
I hear the whispering
breaths she takes
as she drifts further
and further away from me.
The energy I absorb as
she sleeps on my chest,
she is my blanket
and I am her magnet.
I forget about time and space.
I do not forget about the face
I currently stare at, her
eyes shut away from the
lifeless world of the now.
I wrap myself in her scent.
Her hair grazes my cheekbone.
Her open hand lays on
my beating heart as to say,
"we will be okay after all."
I burrow my nose into the nest
that surrounds me and 
decide to let go with her
by slowly drifting away.
I try to find her in a dream.
I remember the hawk 
I saw earlier,
perched in a dying treetop,
patiently looking and
waiting for his moment
to take flight.

The cold winter rain falls.
I hear the echo the house makes
as the North wind beats against 
its weathered shield.
The frigid chill outside battles
the insulated warm inside.
She wiggles her toes and
brushes them against my legs.
One of her toenails 
is longer than the other 
and I feel like it cut me, 
but I ignore the bleed because
I am already cut by her body
and her ways
and her glances
and her mannerisms,
and no matter what I do, 
I will remember the first time 
she looked at me when she knew
she loved me more than anything.
I look out my window and
I see that winter hawk perched
on his lookout, 
still hunting, prowling,
searching for his next meal,
unaware that my world constantly
changes as his remains the same.

The winter hawk on a cold frost morn,
that haggardly graceful bird
looking for something to snag
in its sharp talons only to
fly away with it and cheat 
me out of watching it feed,
me doing the same to it
by colliding with her in 
the confines of my four walls.
The winter soul in a warm bed
along with another hot body,
hoping to exchange dual heats 
and turn a cold room
into a raging furnace,
both desiring to feel real
and remain real among the fakeness,
waiting for that day when
the outside temperature is again,
for one, 
too cold to bear, and,
for another,
warm enough for a slow dance 
outside underneath a 
star filled sky.

The winter hawk -
brave the elements,
poor, lost soul,
only swooping down when
it's time to feed on
another's everlasting flame,
an eternal flicker that is inside
all of us.
The winter soul -
stay wrapped in your blanket
and only let her in
when she reaches for you
because, she, too, is
searching for the same welcomed
warmth that you so desire
and may have already found.

Both wanting to stay warm
while also enjoying
the frigid cold that
envelopes us in that
brisk, naked season so named.

Both wanting to stay cold
and slowly melt like
a forgotten ice cube
that was willingly dropped
and left on a dirty kitchen floor.

I am the winter hawk.

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