When the hawk lifted above the goats
grazing on the mountain,
into the mist-filtered,
sun-kissed sky,

I don’t know if you had ever tasted grass so sweet,
but I bet the wind sang at the touch
of your wings. My horns wondered why
all the rustling. I’d never

held such a range to
quake beneath. Had you ever
transmuted such a brightness?
When the hawk lifted

above the goats grazing on the
mountain, into the mist-filtered,
sun-kissed sky? I quenched your thirst
as you penetrated me, and we grew

from the dirt to let the world
feast. Without your warmth,
would the frost have
left my wings? I lit

within my own expanse
as you took care of me. The
hawk lifted. The goats grazed.
The sun washed everything.

first published in Bleating Thing