Like missing a long lost relative
I realized this morning
I did not hear cicada song.
Instead my ears were filled
with the shrill cry of Matsu no Taka
Hawk of the Pines
piercing the air with secret poet names
and the names of invisible guides.
He does this each year
on the first truly cold day of the season.
Copper beams of autumn light dance across his plumage.
Small birds scatter from his line of flight,
then resume their tree-branch gossip in his great wake.
And each year I am left grateful
breathing in the cool air flowing through the screen;
the gray-blue sky
and burnt-umber branches
reminding me of my dual citizenship.