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Easter, Good Lord, Again
Kevin Hadduck (bio)

A wing-shot hawk, silent, stood
on a small rise, its eyes slanted skyward.
A wounded wing hung heavy at its side.
Panting, it died.
      A hawk of the same color
cuts and cries above the same small hill.
Will you, this year, have me contrive
a resurrecting from a bird watcher’s tale?
You will, as before. You did, Good Lord,
seize me, mute and cold, in your talons,
take bone-bent me aloft with a leap
and cry, “Now rise with me and sing!”
No lovelier song than sung by You, high
wheeling Hawk, raptured, and satisfied.

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