Winter’s Last Sun

The Aztec sun clatters as it rises
into one more day, with gold and tin foil flashing
at the peak where it rests
a short while before
the hawk awakens and wheels

away from the mountain’s shoulder.
He tilts to the pull
of the ground beneath him
on each wing in turn
as the primaries brush raindrops
from the clouds

that open to display the secret light
inside them, which spills onto
the slopes and glows a chilly glow
all the way down from the ridgeline
to the thorns in the arroyos

where the wind has caught
and torn itself in trying
to reach the narrow spaces
before it flew back into the open
and turned its many tails
into a whip.



David Chorlton

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