Driving early morning–
eastward,
I squinted as
February hop-scotched
into March,
impolitely revealing
nature’s
annual stutter.
I could see her flounder,
that last day of February,
that misty-eyed daybreaker;
like she was stretching
to angle across the ocean,
but just hadn’t
figured out
the geometry yet.
Two hawks,
disinterested in
radial arcs and
planetary rotation,
were flying low–
in all their brilliant
semi-circles–
chasing heat,
chasing spring,
chasing each other
into the trajectory
of the car that bounced
them off the asphalt and
into the drift,
talons leaning
sunward.