I lean forward in the driver’s seat
And stare out the cloudy windshield
At the swooping black dots higher than Brasstown Bald

I search for a curve
Of wing
Of profile
Of body

The slightest bend to distinguish them
from buzzards’ flat pedestrian span

I am like the woman
Searching for the lost coin

I squint and hope
For I, too, can be lost

But today, I am not

In this moment–
When I witness thirty hawks
poised in their migration above me–

I poise beneath the curve of the wing of God