Maggie Queeney

The hawk clutches a piebald hare, planks of wing
strung at the apex phase of its flap, a chevron
leading the eye back to the transfixed, dusty hide
in-claw, to the nest strewn and waiting in down

and bones and fledglings. The parent and prey
sway, strung in constant arrival, a violin
waxing. The eye practices each stitch
binding the skins over strata of wool

as if running scales, plays along
the rippled, room-temperature pelt.
Shellacked branches grow
in stalled lightning to edge the tableau:

what is left of the hands
that shaped and sealed and chose.