This guy's got a long name.
"'Parabuteo unicinctus.' Or, like we call him, "'Halcón.'
You are dark brown almost black like me.
Your shoulders, the color of the red earth I come from.
They call you Harris's hawk, parabuteo unicinctus,
but I know you as the dusky angels perched in my Ponderosa
Pines.
Nene, Chiquito and Briana, my Chihuahua, Jack Russell,
and Calico Cat--
they all know you're here.
[LAUGHTER]
They smell you.
They feel your gaze.
They do not run away.
Early morning walkers on Tumamoc,
they witness that thwack thwack of your powerful wings
and behold that elegant glide through sweet cantaloupe skies.
Little children in the wash watch
you play, chase your friends through Palo Verde
and Mesquite thick with creamy pods and mistletoe.
Small mice scurry along the sand.
Pack rats tremble in the brush.
Rabbits pretend to be invisible.
Mourning doves do not coo.
Everyone here understands balance.
And the desert is thankful you're here.
In the early morning shadows, coffee cup in hand,
I see you in my trees.
I know you hear Aurora's music and I, too,
am thankful you're here.