Sunday Morning Visitor to a New York Apartment


What would the Romans make
of this hawk, or eagle,
who suddenly collided with our window
and now is sitting on the air conditioner,
head cocked, staring so intently
through the glass into your eyes and mine at the breakfast table?


Has this curious raptor been following windy currents
south from his usual crags
in pursuit of a more elusive prey,
only to settle now
for trash-fed pigeons and scrambling rats?

Or has he, like you and I, developed a genuine taste
for the food that only cities can provide?


You move your cup, the feathers ruffle.  I stand
and all at once the great wings rise.
Off he flies, the messenger
of some morning still to come, circling away in the growing light,

an augury which neither of us yet can read
but which in time we might.

Michael Cooney

If you've any comments on this poem, Michael Cooney would be pleased to hear from you.