Buteo Syntax

The weather can be stubborn,
mind waiting downwind with sun
at its back to blind

already half-blinded ducks
more and more aware of lurk,
of hover and finite—of the frame,

its noise from the streets outside
ticking within vents
like a tongue against teeth:

no concern for when or why,
just what as the first ripples emboss
the basin’s yawn—

not enough yet to float on
but enough to take as a sign
to test sails and knots and self—

self always last.
On calmer days it means rowing.
The archetype takes wing,

drops from a mooring of cloud.