Classic Poem

To my enrainbowed eyes the trees are walking,
and the hawk is still as headland cliff.
What utter rapture at the end of stalking,
my dear Lord, now that I fly frozen stiff.

Each snowflake is a prism or a mirror
in a gallery of grimacing flame,
and every squealing self to You no dearer
than the birds that You hunt down for game.

You are, at last, a talon in the light
that clings in flight to a fear-stricken dove,
and I am the tears in the wake of fright
amid the falling feathers of our love.