In a line my family marches up Russian Ridge,
the trail too narrow for a mother’s shoulder
to brush up against her son’s.
Ahead my husband and daughter stop,
scrunch their faces up at the sky,
blue and bare save for a cooper hawk
flying in widening circles.
He has the sky to himself, I turn
to tell my son, but eyes straight ahead,
he walks by me without a word.
My own eyes sting then,
and I pretend it’s the bay leaves
underfoot, their smell bright as flowers.
Only the tall grass talks, whispering
as we follow the curve of the hill
up and around until at last
the path flattens onto a low ridge.
Mountains roll out below us,
the horizon musical with their curves,
the cooper hawk now at eye level,
still tracing circles, still finding its flight pattern.
My son watches, his hands the hands
of a man, deep in his pockets, and I steal
a picture of him, trying to capture
the moment before the bird flies away.
Originally from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, Hilary King is a Pushcart-nominated and Best of the Web-nominated poet now living in the San Francisco Bay Area of California. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies.
Featured image courtesy the poet.
