the wind in the trees puts me in a trance
in the backyard with a record player
a long orange extension cord
a rock star cellist from the 1940s

my beloved wife joins me
stops herself
when her gaze lands on tasks
that will not get done today

we spot a falcon or kite
not a hawk or buzzard
tiny in the high wind
arcing near the clouds

quickly eight more appear
drop from the summer clouds
that race across the sky

we’re out of the plastic chairs
standing close to each other
our arms touching
bare feet in the grass
watching the paths
of the distant birds of prey
in the sunny blue sky

Bob Hudson is a complex multicellular organism produced by millions of years of evolution.