SONG OF THE SPARROW HAWK [1964]

   by Dick Bakken 
  
   I lift where I will. I rise freely.
   Nothing catches me.
   I soar the updrafts higher
   calling defiance—
   I espy Death and mock
   that coward.

Death drops like two great black turkey vultures
sweeping low through ribbed pines,
not fluttering a feather—
circling, watching.

As long as a plunging heart
shifts us one leg to other,
flexing and flashing, calling out,
Death will only circle . . . patiently . . .
terribly silent . . . and black . . . waiting . . .

for rapture to one day slump.
Then Death drops
cackling and flopping,
tearing his tough flesh in pink strips.