Bob Bumstead
It happened on Kirk Road,
you know, the one between Fern Ridge
and Territorial Road,
I was riding near
a scraggly orchard,
when a Cooper’s hawk tore the air
just over my head
then wheeled, came back
and dropped a robin
right in front of me
and was gone.
I circled back,
searched for the hawk
without success,
rode off fifty yards
in hope she would return
for her gift,
not a sign.
Had I been Odysseus,
this would have been
a sign from the gods
to give me pause,
to rethink my course.
But,
as a twenty-first century man
with no oracles to consult,
I rode on.