on freeway light posts.
The hawks stand sentry
unabused by the squawk of gulls.

The hawks stand sentry
to protect the best bits
of roadkill from sun-rot.

Like strange bedfellows
swimming in long-pants
every new fraction is improper.

The toll keeps traffic at bay
as marine layer mists trod
along on Rhinoceros pads.

The hawks stand sentry
as the generation is re-labeled
and their food is not.

The sun spun around yesterday,
again, but tomorrow’s unknown.
The hawks stand sentry.

Over the distant horizon
perhaps, for the last time,
the hawks stand sentry.

The budgeting hawks watch
only allotting enough energy 
to scavenge. A lazy efficiency.

The raptor pecks on the shoulder
at the gaggle of guts to be gotten.
A van’s wake fans its tail feathers.

The sky is never black,
only deeper and deeper blues
until morning—assuming it’s still coming.

It is still coming, right?
Ask the stoic hawks
to the passing sentry cars.