the hawk

tumbling down the steps,
slipping on ice,
you see the sky, the cloud
of trees,
you see a hawk with a grey
mouse struggling
still alive
in the clutch of a sharp
beak.
you tumble some more,
reaching the bottom.
nothing seems broken,
you stand up and shake off
the dust, the debris.
you look back up into the sky.
the hawk is gone.
you go home, thinking of
dinner.