the falconer

An old poem. For no reason.
                                                            
They have kept me hungry
so I’d come back.
They took off my hood and I was blinded
                                                            
Then the air
the olive orchards.
                                                            
I rose high
There – my falconer,
our glove,
the donkey,
the farm,
the smell of the river,
the shake of the dog.
                              
I cir­cled out farther
and be­low me – just then –
the olive or­chards turned to stone, went flat, grew houses
the crick­ets stopped their singing
and the creek had lost its frogs
the hous­es gath­ered in cir­cles and moved closer
the hous­es moved tighter
the chil­dren grew taller
the chil­dren grew wider
and dis­ap­peared in­side the houses
that grew bigger
that grew wider
that stopped their music
and the creek had lost its tadpoles

I was circling
and
drifting
The fog lift­ed forever.
The oats went dull and bent un­der pavement.
The pave­ment filled with metal.
light from it blind­ed me
this high up
and from it rose the sound
of nothing

I cir­cled higher
and could not see
and could not breathe

I nav­i­gat­ed by hunger
I nav­i­gat­ed by hill shape
I want­ed to return
to where the per­sim­mons were
were the pea­cock was
where the don­key chewed the fence
where the fal­con­er had been wait­ing for me
his strong arm outstretched.
but I found
no dirt
no hand
no glove
no keeper
no one waiting
no trem­bling prey and van­ish­ing tail
no sweet barn and board
on which to fold my wings,
tuck my head
and rest

no one who remembered
let­ting me go.

—lau­ra hohlwein

Flom­mist Lau­ra Hohlwein is a con­tem­po­rary ab­stract sur­re­al­ist. Copy­right © Lau­ra Hohlwein.

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