The sentinel stands guard on lofty branch,
A hawk, mottled white brown and red, who waits
To take to wing, poised, eyes upon the earth.
See how he soars from post to duty post
Alighting but to watch patient again.
How I do wish to fly with him on high
To give wing to the yearning poetry
Of my soul and to be high, high above
And higher still than common earthly cares
If only for a time, a respite brief.
If only—no! To fly is but to flee
And unlike the red hawk who may only
Look down, I can, and must, ever look up.