There seems to be an invisible wire suspending the kestrel
that hovers low above the road, oblivious to the traffic.
she appears to be perfectly still, her wings taming the wind,
her reptile eyes fixed, untamable, unknowable.
Inside the car, I am listening to an old bluegrass song from the 1940s,
a female singer is also suspended in the moment,
her voice fluttering, swooping, soaring,
crackling from a dusty Alabama studio.