Not the Hawk

When I reach to cup my hand 
to the back of my son’s head,  
and some weight of him  
rests again in me,  
this boy whose body poured  
from mine  
one deep December night, 
I am not the hectoring jay 
not the squirrel wasting seeds, 
or garter snake mid-road 
and crushed, blood and tissue 
dry as leaves, not the dog barking 
against its chain, 
nor the snapping turtle, 
waiting in the mud. 
I am briefly not the hawk  
catching the updraft,  
circling, 
until the small birds cry 
and spin away.