Leslie Norris, 1 September 1983
The hawk carries his eye out of swinging altitudes higher than winter. Above his locked feet, hunched in wet feathers, he rages in larches. It is the snow brings him down.
Bland snow has covered the rock of the precipice. Is the hawk to hang above so changed a world? He knows the quiet architecture of high places, the black argument of granite,
but the snow’s in his eye and he shrieks...