I've always loved the myth

of the guy who lurks

away from the smoking

battlefield



and up into high,

rocky hills

where he settles,

a hermit,



eventually losing

his sorcerer's arts.

Or at least

forgetting them.



Then one day he spies

a brown hawk.



In his next moment

he is that hawk



rising high

and away

from his scant hovel

in the boulders



tasting at

his last earthly

second



the bare wisped

aroma



of his last

smoldering

campfire



before cresting

the blue slope

of highland

air



and falling,

then rushing



toward

the green distant

lowland

mists

of his

homeland



for one last fight