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TRAPPING SEASON



I.

My father is a falconer.

Hawks caught young 

among falling leaves.

Branchers, they’re called.

Raised to hunt,

feeding tyring from his hand—

leather-bound.

Footing comes later.


II. 

Young, I wore

their feathers in my hair,

strains of red threaded

through strains of red.

Disappointed—once,

I could not fly.


III.

A red-tailed hawk,
	her keel turned downward,

Train long, sails wide,
	and feathers hard-pinned,

Drifts above the field,	
	beneath the sun.	

Even she is grounded,
    tethered to earth by her shadow.

Joanna Englert resides in Louisville, KY, where she is an English MA student at the University of Louisville. She writes poetry and creative nonfiction.