Thermals

The seahawk alights just past 10

Feeling the thermals pull him aloft

Oblivious to my longing stare

Through the reflective glass

Of the isolation room

Each day the same circle

The seeming monotony

Of the search for prey

Not a calorie to be wasted

Or a wing idly flapped

I lie on the bed again

As I did the other days

And go into a waking dream

I circle the river with him

Finding the new in the same

Three weeks later

I spy a hawk as I hike

Twenty-two miles upriver

Thermal circle of searching

For the same in the new