The porch is sleek with blown rain. Just past dawn
I glimpse a northern harrier over the wrack:
a long-tailed accipiter, a pale cross.
What brought her here from Sauvie's Island?
She flies straight and stubborn as an oared galley
looking to ram the recycling center,
At the last minute climbing over and vanishing,
dark at last, a quick black score against the sky.
Accipiter, accepter, one who takes, receives, or grasps:
my offering is a catch of the throat, of splayed toes
on cold painted wood, the wrinkling forehead
of a gray-muzzled ape, glad to wake to
an uncertain Spring, glad to rise on one knuckled fist
from a warm nest, and to see a messenger
on an unknown errand from an island of farms
south to the rain-worn marshes.
In response to this Morning Porch post.