Map Drawn in Invisible Ink

The sky is webbed with echoes

 A hawk glides in 

On the music of lawnmowers.

The light’s a sieve,

 

Dusk sifts down.

The wingtips of the hawk

Brush the grass

 

And in a single bound its shadow

Soars over the ghosts of televisions

Haunting dark houses.

 

The wingspan of the hawk

Cuts a path through the air and disappears

Behind night’s door.

 

The sky is webbed with echoes — 

Ancient currents

That cross and recross the silence.

 

It is a map drawn in an unseen spectrum,

A legend of lucid gestures.