This was the hawk’s way. This way the hawk
Nested a moment on the incredible
Crag of the wind, sitting the air like rock.
This was the perilous, lovely way the hawk fell
Down the long hill of the wind, the anarch air
Shaped by his going: air become visible, bent
To a blade of beauty, cruel and taut and bare,
A bow of ecstasy, singing and insolent.
Then air deployed again, and was only air
On the empty way the hawk in his beauty went.