So this hawk,
this red-tailed hawk,
this 'At first I thought it was a little dog?' hawk
was hunkered down in the alley,
was feeding,
was ripping up,
was eating by tearing off little strips

of this pigeon,
from this iridescent rust-blue pigeon's breast,
a blizzard of pigeon plumes falling
on blood-spattered snow because
the pigeon's wings beat
softly, softly, softly, still
making angels.