Covet

In open space the wind does wander

without purpose, without glee

dreaming of the forest edge

the bending brush, the swaying tree!

Ocean waves o’er water dark

float along in restless sleep

its time to bide, to form the tide

on beaches white to crawl and creep.

The resting hawk, on ancient branch

sits preening, cleaning, making fresh

its killer face, its battle flag

anticipates the coming flesh.