The hawk was a brown smudge

The hawk was a brown smudge

against the power line,

perfectly still until the wheels

caught the lip of the asphalt hump.

The car groaned.

A head of lettuce rolled

into the dark under the passenger seat.

The milk jug made a heavy, wet thud

against the floor mat.

I am sitting in the driveway now.

The engine is clicking,

metal contracting in the damp air.

I am thinking about the hawk

and the way the car stayed on the ground

while everything else

briefly tried to leave.