Katie Hartsock
Ready, at the edge of its north arm. I see his body
standing there and he steps down a falconer, a gauntlet
on his wrist no talon can pierce though. The deep wide pockets
of his hawking coat do not stock dead meat bait to bloody
hands or beak. And when they hunt, it’s as if earth has never
seen a hunter. He prefers to fly Hopkins free, his feathers
his to feel without Golgotha’s bells and jesses, hide and silver
tailor-made to bind or betray a bird, wherever
perched. He likes to listen for the wings that needn’t argue.
Long ago he’d have left behind the creance, a strip of
leather keeping his raptor bound to him. The single
word means faith, cut down from peu de creance, “of little
faith,” abbreviated into a stump more suggestive
than its tree. If left alone, he’d wait. Days, if he had to.
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