leaving chicago.

i drove over
eel river and poor man's creek
when i left you and counted
cooper's hawks on fence posts.
nursing cold day-old coffee and
the beginnings of a bluegrass poem,
i passed a hit doe on the side
of the road, and then her fawn,
and could not stop myself braking.
thirty three hawks watched me sputter
home on country roads, and
none of us said anything.