Shadow

As the plane descends, its shadow runs

ahead, widens, spreading like a bruise,

one wing slanted toward the lit

and lettered gates below, and I remember

the hanging circles of a hawk

above the rocks, a vole or squirrel caught

in talons, beating the air. The creature

doesn’t see the massive wingspan cast

its image below: a stingray coasting

slowly, closely, over uneven ground.

The prey cannot see its shadow

held inside the hawk’s, or know its captor

as a deepening of water,

a darkening of rocks, or an eclipse

that wanders; cannot fear the far-off

nest—but only senses rushing air,

only knows the angled fall.