The hawk circles the awful sky,
just above its prey —
a hen pecking away in its crosshairs.
It is a burning afternoon
in the hills of Nsukka.
Sweat crawls
down the groove of my back
as I am about to witness
freedom vanish
beneath the claws of a daring bird.
And now,
as though God shot an animal
from the heavens,
I see the hawk — all silver and streamlined,
swooping over the hen,
lifting its catch,
back into the infinite blue.
